


Michigan

by blue_chocolate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Car Sex, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, USA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_chocolate/pseuds/blue_chocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since he left home, Harry lives by three simple rules.<br/>1. Don’t get in deep shit.<br/>2. Don’t talk to strangers.<br/>3. Don’t trust a thief.<br/>Everything goes to hell when he meets Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Michigan

**July**

The strap of Harry’s backpack scorches and rubs his naked shoulder as it bounces on his thigh, held down by the brick-heavy packing. Heat prickles through his tank top like beestings. People walk in broad circles around him, his gaze straying from their faces to his cocked thumb and the machine across South Street. The cigarette he bites isn’t even lit. Taxis stop five feet away to pick up ancient ladies with grandchildren and men similar to his dad. As no one spares him a pair of friendly eyes he melts into the concrete. His hand drops into a forgotten pocket, fumbling for comfort to dive into a hole the size of four thick digits. No lighter either. He could light the stick by holding it to the sun, but it isn’t past noon yet, and he’ll have plenty of time to kill when he sits waiting for the night, time to search or buy a new one.

The woman on a bench behind clears her throat and scrapes her heels against the ground. He turns, and by the fire in her bleak eyes lets the useless cigarette drop dead on the asphalt between them. Her bitter features smoothen and she leaves her seat in a light breeze, chin up high as she rounds Harry in a wide detour. He sees her chubby ankles jiggle even from where he stands.

Conversations about the financial market and national shootings buzz in a thick day-rhythm on these streets, where most of the participants are retirees whose opinions have since long been forfeited by their young counterparts. A man in a mustard jacket bears a “FEED THE POOR – END POVERTY” sign on his torso and back and shakes a small empty jar when an unfortunate soul gets too close. Light dances in his eyes when Harry stops three feet away.

“Sir,” he says and hurries forward, “would you be so kind to spare a dollar for the poor?”

Harry scrunches his nose at the stench of spoiled ham and oregano. Studying the dirtied jar in the man’s outreached hands he makes a show of staring from that to the man’s red moustache and back to his own clothes that show more skin than they hide. Sun hasn’t bitten him all summer.

“You’re asking the wrong guy,” he says. “Try outside the malls instead.”

Endless roads build before him, and after his brief head start the man calls out to his shrinking back in the crowd. The rolling gravel beneath his shoes reminds him of stampede, and when no soothing voice whispers in his ear it’s difficult to look beyond that anger locked in the people around him to see the world’s grace. They mutter and whine about happiness, success they’ll never lay a finger on. Garbage litters the alleys like a reflection of their high hopes. The garbage is a universal thing, and like the sun everyone depends on it. Even the corners back in Brick hold them as trademark. Foremost the alleys serve as haven for his likes.

The glittering asphalt on Rodman Street opens a path to Bradford Alley, a path he’s yet to familiarize with. The further from centrum he travels the fewer bags of forgotten groceries fight for space. As he turns the corner a force tugs the bag from his shoulder and tugs him onto the ground. His things empty out and stones gather in his hair. He rolls over on his side with a steadfast grip on his belongings. The source of his fall stands up on the knees, coughing, and reaches out a battered hand.

“I tripped, and you were the closest lifeline,” the man says. “I didn’t mean to bring you down with me.” Harry ignores the gesture and pulls himself up, packing his stuff back in.

“That wasn’t my fault, was it? Otherwise I can fix it for you real quick.”

Harry stares to his thank top, where patches of skin speckle the fabric, and his battered arms.

“Been that way a long time,” he says. “I’ll get by.”

The man ruffles his dark hair and sits down. With nimble hands he plucks Harry’s stuff back, twisting each object in hand before stacking. Harry leans back and dries his wounds, glancing to the man’s hairy jaw. White dots stain his ripped jacket, the same kind that spatters over his jeans and shirt. His dull eyes flicker when he takes Harry’s wallet in hand, his thumb caressing the bleached leather. After a moment he stuffs away that too and rummages around the bag as he stands, holding Harry’s wary gaze.

“That’s enough,” Harry says and reaches for the bag dangling from the man’s fist.

“Wait.” A hand stirs among his stuff. Frowning, he takes hold of the bag and glares to the man’s marred nose.

“Give it back.”

The man kicks his knee and dashes for the alley, bag thumping against his side. _Trash._ The voice in his head bites into his flesh and sets his adrenaline pumping. There’s no option but to chase. No one wanders round to assist Harry, so he stomps away at the ground, chasing his belongings with a flaring bloodstream, fighting the deceitful gravel leading him. The other time this happened a young girl punched the perpetrator in the breast and earned his life back without charge. This time only he can close the gap between the tramp and himself, and the alley soon cracks up in a crossroad.

By an overhanging branch the man loses focus for a moment. Harry’s body tightens. The man yields when Harry knocks into him, hands held in level with his head and a lilt smile on his lips. Hardly a worthy resistance.

Harry squeezes the thief’s throat to the bricks. Items clatter and roll over their feet and cobble. To his relief none of the doors littering the bricked walls slam open, no blinds or curtains pull aside to spot the assault.

“Didn’t have to take the whole fucking bag.”

“You might’ve had a gun there,” the man says, his Adam’s apple rolling up in Harry’s sweaty palm. “You didn’t give me any time to search. I can’t be too careful these days. Honestly, poppet, I just want to eat like the rest of you. Finders, keepers.”

“I don’t need a gun to take your kind down.”

“We’re the same; stop degrading yourself. Please, let go of me.”

When Harry lets go, he expects the man to rub his neck and fall to the ground. The man leans back, sighing, and looks to either alley exit. Harry drags the bag back with his foot, eyes set on the man’s sore neck as the low voice begins anew.

“So, can I get some money?”

“Do _you_ have a gun?” Harry says.

“I wouldn’t stand here talking to you if I had. I might as well go rob a bank.”

The stubble looks dirtier up-close, when it doesn’t glitter in the sun. He looks old and lost.

Harry gathers up his stuff in no time and zips the bag closed around his disorganized belongings. At this point he wouldn’t say no to a gun. For self-defence, he’ll say.

“You have fun robbing,” he says, heading back to Rodman Street. The clattering of worn shoes follows his shadow. The man grabs his tank top and yanks him to the obscurity behind a staircase.

“I’ll do you a favour if you give me some. Just ten bucks and we can move on. No one gets robbed.” When Harry steps aside the fingers curl into his skin, tugging the hair on his chest through the translucent fabric. They freeze in that position.

People pass the alley in the corner of Harry’s eye without making a sound. He rips the man’s hand from his body and pushes him into to the opposite building again.

“Fuck off.” He spits between them and heads for the bristling city. The bag hangs clutched in his hands.

Sunshine dances in the windows he passes with soundless gait and flips through his wallet as he navigates through rush-hour. Before dusk he aims to have found dinner, hailed a car, sit next to a talkative driver, and sleep in their vehicle for the night, go far away.

Eight hours later, the sun diminishes and his stomach churns. From the corner he sits in he can only smell yesterday’s fish and gasoline. Disgusted by the neon signs he curls up, cheek pressed to the cool wall, listening to the snickers and pitying murmurs voiced by pedestrians. He saves his sweater for sleeping purpose. Otherwise he’ll wake up, cold and confused in a clandestine pit of Philadelphia. The least he can do is drape some clothing around him for the night and erase one of the three C’s.

Around these hours a buzz hits the pavement, sizzling through the concrete, up the lampposts. Folks start to stumble and lean on each other, bark and cry, projectile vomit into the piling garbage, and the occasional homeless person crashing there, to continue on down the road. Dignity is unheard of nowadays.

Midnight greets Harry with a truck. It pulls over to the side with flickering blinkers and the door opens when the silhouette of a man draws near. A more golden opportunity than this will be scarce. Harry straps the bag tighter and scurries ahead just as the man climbs up and slams the door. He waves, stumbling behind, and shouts for the vehicle to stop. Fear shakes his core, and underlying hope pulsates like a heartbeat. The car doesn’t roll out on the road. Its door swings agape, but no figure leans out to search his presence in the night. Blessing his residual strength, Harry joins the drivers and looks to the seats with a pant.

In the seat closest to him sits the afternoon’s thief, his eyes shimmering and crisp hands knotted over his tummy. The figure next to him wears a permanent frown, his cheeks sunken.

“You’re heading out of town, aren’t you?” Harry says. The people above hear none of his words.

“Are ye the same?” the old man asks in a gruff voice. The thief scoffs, mirroring Harry’s glower.

“No. Only me here. But he’s _with_ me, and I’d like him to tag along for a few miles, if I may, sir. I’ll pay later.”

The old man strokes his flint, pinches his crooked nose and crosses his arms, his foot tapping on the gas pedal. Harry dares to take a step into the truck. No heartbroken drunks can steal his focus from the moment. This is his ticket out.

“Ye have t’ pay double,” the old man says.

The thief picks his nails and a smirk grows on his lips. “Sure. Can he tag along?”

“Don’t see why not.”

The thief shuffles toward the man and snatches Harry’s hand, plopping him down in the right seat. Without protests, the thief slides onto his left leg and slams the door. He sighs to the delightful boom of a new engine going to work. They move with the bumps in the road, silent as the midnight radio blares old country. Distracted by the endless streetlights and the colours on the dashboard, the vehicle and small talk between the thief and the driver rocks Harry to sleep. If he happens to sit next to a serial killer or two, so be it.

 

“West Virginia?”

Harry stares to the ambling thief and the truck blasting up north in the dawn. Its fumes taste familiar. He rolls his neck like mum taught him, his eyes shut from the sun. The thief joins him, wiping his mouth and inspecting the skyscrapers to their right.

“My ass started to hurt,” he says. “Your thighs are too thin. Bony. Where did you plan to travel with that car?”

Harry yawns and makes his way down the feathery hill, dropping his things away from the riverbank as he crouches and cleans his face. He takes a second to lose himself in the dark beneath his eyelids. The chilling wind, croaking birds, widespread parks, obnoxious kids throwing Frisbee, he’ll take the whole package. Who knew city life would be this dull?

His morose reflection scatters when the thief spits in the water.

“You’re welcome for the ride,” he says and tugs Harry’s hair back. “It wasn’t free.”

The motion strains Harry’s throat. “Thanks, thief. Was it a ‘thanks for sparing me earlier’ gesture? I thought you were broke.”

“Thief has a name. Speaking of money, how are we on those ten bucks?”

With his hair free of filthy hands, he twists around and crawls up the riverbank. Mud colours his ruddy knees. This close he has trouble towering over the man. He draws his shoulders back.

“You’re kidding. Sure, thanks for the ride, thanks for taking me to this rotten state. If you’re expecting me to pay you, get lost. I need it as much as you do.”

“Lies. And no, I don’t expect anything but good-will from you. How about we scratch the money and you buy me a steaming plate of Vietnamese? You’ll do me a favour, I’ll owe you one later on, and we’ll both walk away with our stomachs full. Win-win.”

Harry toys with a rubiginous strap from his bag. The thief’s hollow eyes burn his soul, the short stubble containing traces of froth. The picture he has in his head of the local poverty matches what stands before him.

“It’s just one meal,” the thief says. “It doesn’t even have to be a full plate, or an expensive one. That’s a lot less than ten bucks. This is the greatest offer you’ll get in weeks!”

To his dismay, Harry shakes his head and heads for the wet path into town.

Before going too far, Harry speaks up. “Is Vietnamese what appeals you? It isn’t just a heat of the moment meal?”

They trudge uptown and pass several Chinese and overall Asian restaurants, but without the thief’s agreement their search continues. As the sky breaks open in pink, a food cart with _Vietnamese_ incorporated in its title rises from the concrete. Its green shades blends with the few signs of vegetation, and only the crooked red back of a man behind the cart breaks the pattern.

After they’ve obtained three crunchy rolls each they park on a bench below the highway.

“What’s West Virginia ever done to you?” the thief says with a mouth full of salad and honeyed chicken. “You said this state was rotten before. I just figured that it’s offended you sometime.”

Harry grunts and dries his hands on a napkin, setting his food down. For once he doesn’t spill everything over himself.

“A friend moved here a few years ago, and when I didn’t bother to ride in a car for six hours straight we lost touch. That’s enough reason.”

“Did your ass get sore?”

Glaring at the man, Harry returns to the soggy meal.

“Still,” the thief says and straightens his back with a pop, “you’re friendlier when you’re full.”

“My brain activity decreases,” Harry says. His greasy fingers slide along the plastic mug when he reaches for it. The thief smiles and stands, discarding the tiny crumbs on his plate in a trashcan. As his body begins to shrink to the skyline backdrop Harry follows behind and leaves his food unguarded on the tattered bench.

“Thief?”

“I have to pee,” the thief says, his head cocked. “If I yank my pants down on the street people will stone me. Later, if you decide to give me a name, I prefer ‘Louis’.”

“Yeah.” Harry steps back and coughs. The thief lingers for a second before crossing the field and diving into a shrubbery.

Flies buzz by Harry’s food when he settles back down. Traffic commences with the sunrise and the lights in the looming buildings die down. To think he’d even make it a state from home. The weight of his packing eases with each mile he lays behind home and his current location. Being on his own legs after years of imprisonment in his room, that feeling can’t be found even in the heaviest of drugs. If possible he’d cage it in a bottle and keep with him instead of the smelly sneakers occupying the space in his backpack.

Stones bounce past his feet, and not long after, the grass exposes a pair of feet nearing. Hot breath swirls around his neck.

“Are you planning to visit that friend of yours?”

The thief steals the remains of his last crunchy roll and licks his fingers clean. Harry shrugs.

“Have no idea where she’s at now,” he says. In a second the thief tugs him from the bench.

“Good. I know a place we can go.” The thief shakes his head when Harry opens his mouth, and speaks over his approaching words. “I need money, your poor soul needs company and survival skills. Win-win. I’ll fix us a ride. Still owe you a favour, right?”

“What kind of favours do you provide?” Harry throws the thoughts of cold nights aside and yanks the college sweater from his bag. It’s his lifeline in the real world.

“I won’t kill, if that’s what you mean,” the thief says. “But, between one destitute to another, I know a few people who would.”

 

 

**August**

 

The thief mumbles more than he articulates and mutters as he sees nothing in this type of weather. Flickering signs beam through the black downpour, with the gas station lifted high from the plains. No other customers are here, and the both workers stand inside with their heads cloaked by raincoats. Harry can’t hear the booming cars, or the thief’s words. Water prickles his thoughts and the numbers before him.

Finally, the thief shouts, “They don’t serve anything other than frozen sandwiches here! Let’s leave before the storm hits!”

The numbers melt, grow, and broaden. Not a chance he can see the prize or offered products. The thief stomps back to the pumps and presses against one’s side. Harry grunts.

“It’s already hit, fuckhead,” he says and moves his index finger across the titles. Ham and cheese, ham and bacon and shrimp, ham and peas, peas and eggs and shrimp. Is there anything wrong with frozen peas? The standard answer would be yes, but here on the countryside, standing by the only gas station for miles in the blistering wilderness, his thoughts conclude that no, frozen peas come close to acceptable.

A bell chimes when he enters the station, wet and gloomy with a few coins knocking together in his wallet. The two workers sidle back in place behind the counter. One eyes the thief who mutters curses to the Gods above. Her features twist and she tugs her raincoat tighter around her neck.

Harry dumps two wrapped sandwiches on the glass counter.

“Cash or credit?” the man says.

Harry winces at the whipping against the window as he puts forth the coins and eyes the mash of peas and onions smeared inside the plastic. He expects a “have a nice day” or a “take care” when he heads for the door with squeaking boots, but the workers don’t peep until he’s far out of sight by the pumps.

A lone highway, joined by miles and miles of weeds and slopes in the earth, splashes over the landscape and frames the gas station. The thief views the area for the twenty-sixth time when he hands Harry his bag and stands. He even brushes some water from his naked forearms.

“How far to Lansing?” he says.

“The fuck do I know.”

He snatches both sandwiches from Harry in his stride to the station. Not a beat too soon he exits and presses forward to Harry, waving to their left.

“It’s up around the bend. Walking distance, she said.”

When Harry turns to look a lone car zooms past in a blur of hazy headlights and spins trails of water. Beyond that a streetlight flickers to life.

“Bend of _what_?” he says.

“With this tiresome weather and your attitude we’re not going anywhere.”

“No, you wanted to go north to the land of the cold and the damned, and I granted you that wish because I figured you knew how to survive or at least had a grasp of what you were doing, but time and time again you prove me wrong and I’m not gonna support both of us if I’m the only one staying true to our agreement.”

Before he disappears out of sight, the thief stops, and Harry knows that if it hadn’t been raining and they hadn’t stood ten feet apart, the man would have stayed with his back turned. Instead he trudges back. With the air thick of the earth’s revival Harry can’t smell his garbage scent, even with the thief less than an arm’s reach away.

“There’s always that favour, though I doubt it’d make any difference with you. I’m not the one in the dark, so stop patronizing me and shut up, or leave. None of your money is worth the complaints.”

Harry yanks his arm back before he can carry on walking. The only witnesses to their dispute are the dry workers behind the glass plastered with ads of an upcoming election.

“Have you been stealing from me again?” he says. “Do you have a clue about why people avoid you now, or is it still too high above your head to understand?”

“How long had you been on the streets before we met? A week? Two? _I_ know how to survive. Hunger does illogical things to your body and mind and I won’t sit around and wait for it to happen.” Without awaiting a reply he aims for the lost quirk of the road. Harry’s voice peaks.

“At least I stay true to my words!”

After their march of silence, Lansing dives up through the ashes around them and shapes into a suburban area with bland houses lined along labyrinthine lanes. Without stopping, the thief waves Harry closer and they zero in on a mauve façade painted on new boards and a fence white as bones. It comes as no surprise when the thief yanks the handle on the front door and feels for a sign that he can break it open. What does shock Harry is that he after this picks up a key buried in the earth of a sick plant on the side. Irritation still bubbles in his veins so he doesn’t ask, but follows the man inside and groans at the heat curling around his body.

For a moment the thief lingers in the hall, staring at photographs of an unknown family who litters the walls. His sneakers drag dirt to the kitchen where he disappears behind a refrigerator door.

Harry mutters at the sound of unfolding paper and cracking of cans and spreads his sweater over the floor. A red blipping light beckons him over to the radiator fixated in height with his waist. Unlike the one in his house, heat wafts from it. He yanks his shoes off and places them on top of the radiator, joining the thief in the kitchen when his hunger becomes too much and his morals crumble. Without a word he plucks the cold cheese from the thief’s hand and takes a large bite from its middle.

“At least _try_ to be subtle,” the thief says.

“You don’t live here.” Harry says between munches. “Are you familiar with the owners?” He claims a bowl of meatballs.

“It’s a long distance friendship.”

“So you dirty their hallway and steal their food?”

“We’re both tired and hungry; I don’t see why you’re complaining.”

Light shadows fall from the thief’s shoulder blades as he tenses and scans his finger over the marble counter. In the back his hair fuzzes, the strands of baby hair swirled down his neck, dripping. Harry sidles up next to him and grabs a juice carton from the open door.

“Now that we have time, you know what we should do? Cook. God knows I deserve it.” He pushes aside the thief to scan the fridge and chooses pasta and a russet sausage. He reaches up into a cabinet for spices and lets the ingredients plop onto the bench with a thump. “Please, let me handle everything.”

“Because I’m such a distraction-“

“Because your incompetence will moisten my skills. Scram.”

The thief straightens his back and his lips twitch. Harry slices the first slice of sausage and stops short when the thief does no more than sway.

“I said _please_ ,” he says.

The thief backs away in a bow. “If that’s what you want, I’ll be in the living room.”

In the midst of boiling pasta, the slick plucking of a bass shoots through the house. Harry switches off the fan. Voices hum along the bassline and heavy drums; the sound of cheap clubs and a talentless game of pool. It takes him back to New Jersey.

The thief holds a starry blue disc and taps his heel to the couch, his spine curled along the armrest. The ancient lamp next to him colours his face rusty and shapes dance over his cheek as he mouths the lyrics. It’s some kind of funky garage band upgraded to a shitty label, with their broken drum set and coiled guitar strings. His eyelids fall shut when Harry yanks the CD from his lax hand.

“What are you doing here?” he says. “You’ll burn our food if you’re unmindful.”

“This is disjointed noise.” Harry’s gaze flacks over the thief’s body as he twists the disc between stiff fingers. “Ever heard about ‘eating in peace’? Put on something worthy of my time, not this 80’s crap, this-“ Only the even pounding of the outer forces fill the room as his voice fades. The title and recognition burns into his head. “The Cure?”

“He had a better one before,” the thief says, rises from the sunken seats and looks over Harry’s shoulder. “One that I can’t find. There were more bass and melodic lyrics.”

“More trash,” Harry says. He slips the disc back in the thief’s hands and walks over to a ginormous stereo in the corner that blinks with numbers and colons. Lilt strums bloom into the air at the press of a button and he straightens his back. He turns to the thief. “This is good. A little positivity works fine from time to time – none of your melancholy street jams.”

“This is mainstream.”

“For a reason. Touch the stereo and I’ll eat all of dinner myself.”

A woman stirs his pasta when he returns to the kitchen. Bleached spikes stand from her skull and bags hang from her chubby arms. At the sight of Harry she drops the wooden spoon and backs away, hands lifted in line with her head. She murmurs pleads to him and throws glances to the hallway behind, her bags rustling and clinking. It’s been long since anyone cowered before him like this.

The floor creaks as his feet pad forward and the woman shies back, moving along the benches. She grabs a plastic container, tosses it at him and kicks his knees.

The thief emerges to the sound of slapping and finds her straddling Harry, fisting his curls and banging his head to the floor.

“Mari!” calls a rugged voice from the hallway. A man enters with a perplexed child in his arms and a gun lifted to the thief’s head. The kid’s attention flacks between daddy’s stern face and the man holding his hands in the air. The woman’s foot pins Harry’s hair down while she searches for the source of music.

“Great friends,” he says. The voice bustles around in his head, alarmed, for once.

The thief lowers his hands and steps toward him. A faint click of the gun halts his body.

“Get out before I pull the trigger,” the father says, his child frowning and fisting his shirt.

“With your son here?”

He lowers the boy to the ground and whispers, eyes fixated on the two intruders. Both his hands curl around the weapon when the child patters down the hall.

“Chill, okay?”

Harry glares to the woman on his chest. She blocks his vision, so all he can do is listen and keep his tongue tamed. They must look like burglars, or raw criminals, soaked and red eyes wild, plus the crazy stubble sprouting from the thief’s chin. Had this been his house he’d shot them both at first glance.

They continue their wordless exchange and the voice hammers at his brain, stringing his vocal chords into action.

“Seriously, we haven’t stolen a thing. We ate your left-overs-“

The woman drills her heel into his forearm.

“Put the gun down, for goodness’ sake,” the thief says. “What’s your little boy gonna say when he comes out here to the bang and bodies?”

The father hesitates, his stance falling slack. When Harry exhales it tightens again and his eyes blister, focused on the thief’s raised hands.

“There is no use in shooting, Liam, stop aiming at me for fucks sake!”

“Is he a colleague of yours?” the woman says to the father. “I’ve told you what I think about-“

“We’re cousins,” the thief says. He rolls his eyes when the father’s arms drop and confusion flashes over his features. “It’s been years. Last time we talked your hair was long and you wouldn’t stop babbling about the congress.”

“Louis…?” Squeaks of worn boots tear through the air when he walks up to the thief and caresses his jaw with both hands. The gun rests on the sink. Incomprehensible exchanges between the two take place as the woman stops acting guard and stomps down the hall with a scowl.

The two men back away and regard each other. “I’m an adult now,” the thief says. “Facial hair and all. This is Harry.”

With an obscure pair of eyes on him, Harry hoists his body up and cocks his chin. “Pleasure to meet you, Liam.”

Liam’s gaze strays from one man to the other.

“Let’s go out on the terrace,” he says.

Fogged glass frames the room where they sit down and the hair on Harry’s forearms and neck shoot to the skies the moment his skin touches the damp lounger. The two men stare to each other, transfixed, and for a second he doesn’t dare to make a sound. When it’s clear neither will move until told, he throws his feet up on the armrest of the thief’s chair.

“So,” he says, “You’re distant cousins.”

Liam breaks the sacred stare first, glances to Harry’s slack form and dripping sneakers. “Sure. Louis and I go way back.”

Harry clicks his tongue. “You’re not cousins.”

“No,” the thief says. He toys with his tanned hands in his lap, his demeanour stiff and lips a tight rosy line.

“You said you were fine,” he says, swaying closer to them with the lazy rhythm of his voice.

It takes a new front of smatter to the thick glass for Liam to settle back in his chair and let his eyes go lenient. The auburn beard bops when he speaks. Harry would love nothing more than to shave it off, or see him scratch it. Surely a mane like that itches?

“My money ran short,” the thief says. “I’m not here to revive old times. We were around here when the storm hit so I suggested we’d crash at yours for a while. You still haven’t moved the key.”

Before Liam can utter a second pitiful statement, Harry slides his feet back to the plastic floor and rests his elbows on his knees. “The reason I’m here is because he stole my bag of supplies and he hasn’t fulfilled his part of a deal we made.” Though the thief closes his eyes the glower is obvious. “If we could go home and not bother you, we would, but as it looks now none of us are in condition to travel and no place to go. Put aside whatever past conflicts you two share and let us stay for a while.”

Liam guffaws and his eyes glisten. “No need to ponder,” he says and cocks his head to see the thief’s shadowed face, “We parted on great terms. Our friendship is still going strong.”

The thief’s mouth twitches. “He’s the bigger liar I’ve ever encountered.” The toying of thumbs quickens.

“Harry, would you mind leaving us for a moment?” Liam says through a simper.

For a moment, Harry doesn’t react, but soon stands and clamps back into the kitchen. Bleak voices from the reunion on the terrace and the jarring crying of a child fall into the dusk until no one but he stands to fight the silence and sweltering summer left-overs. Last year went this direction. It won’t surprise him when people’s trench coats fail to fill their function and lie left behind as their owners freeze on sunny pavements and open-air cafés. Normally he’d lean back in his seat, pull his sweater tighter round his thin body and guzzle the espresso his dad bought. Now he begs for a place to stay the night.

Liam opens the door and the thief sweeps past Harry and he deep into the house. Harry looks to the stagnant man as the crying heightens.

“You can sleep on the terrace,” Liam says. “Mari won’t be delighted to hear that, but as long as you stay there and don’t venture into the house you’ll be good. Breakfast is served at seven.”

 

“You’re sweeter when you’re warm.”

Harry shimmies further beneath his blanket, blinking to the thief’s immobile body a foot away. The restless voice mulls in his head.

“It’s your attitude,” the thief says. “Everyone who’s met me knows I’m a sweet guy. Sweet, polite, considerate, helpful-“

“Yeah, yeah. I wouldn’t say ‘sweet’. Maybe slick.”

The thief’s lips draw into a broad smile. He rolls over, his hands tucked under his head, and scans the dark. “Slick?”

“What can I say, you know the streets. Without a guide I’d be halfway through Death Valley now, without water or clothes to protect me.”

Light filters past the thief’s mussed hair and bounces into Harry’s eyes. They lie, lost in the littered space. One shuffle later, the lilac covers swallow the thief and he sticks his head out, his breaths filling the void.

“You refused my favour,” he says.

“Didn’t know what it was. Why can’t you stop babbling about it?”

“It’s unusual, that’s all. And someone like you…” He nuzzles into the sleeping bag. His spiky hair pokes up before he dives back up and offers a shrug. “It’s unusual.”

“I know a camping site not too far away. When your frenemy throws us out we could head there, steal from other campers and crash by the lake. No one ever goes further into the woods. I guess they’re afraid of wolves or axmen. We’ll have food, shelter, heat, and if we’re lucky we can find a deck of cards.”

“Sounds more like a vacation than a way to survive.”

“All I’m saying is that your mood gets shittier these days. A night under the starry sky wouldn’t hurt. A night that isn’t spent sniffing yesterday’s meal in an alley or in a stairwell someone forgot to lock.” With a shudder he climbs from his fortress in the sheets and crawls over to the thief. He blocks the moonlight from dancing over their skin and outlines the body beneath him after a few blinks. “Consider this a day off. Let me handle the planning for the week. I’ll keep us fed and alive and you can do me that favour you’re hung up on.”

A rugged hand curls around his wrist and presses him onto his knees. Blank eyes meet him once his gaze settles and they both sit, wrapped in chrysalises.

The thief wipes Harry’s blankets from his legs and yanks his own sheets tighter. “You still have some cash left.”

“We’re not co-dependent on each other, thief. What I have left will be my first aid kit, used in emergencies. This camping site is a great shot at survival. There’s everything we’ll need and we can stay there a week or two before people discover that their stuff is missing.”

“Never have I ever stolen anything. Please, stop calling me a thief.” He shuffles face to face with Harry. “Is this why you fled home? To camp and grill over an open fire? Is that all this life offers?”

“If I’d had a fair saying in the matter I wouldn’t be here with you now,” Harry says. The blanket slips from his shaky body and the moist cold washes over him. Shuddering, he pulls back from the thief and retreats to his bedding.  The voice’s buzz grows into a choir, isolates him from the world around. He clamps his eyes shut, his hands curling to fists. If he’d been delusional he’d be convinced that it chortled aloud.

Soon it leaves him anew, and when he regains sight of the terrace the thief scowls at him.

“Fine,” the thief says. “Let’s head to that lake and you can rob whomever you want. But call me Louis. _Please_.” He lies down and faces the pallid landscape outside the glass, his scrawny back twisted for Harry to regard.

For a while the voice flickers away, enough time to gain Harry some sleep. At midnight it wakes him with a dull throbbing in his chest and circulates via his bloodstream until every muscle and vein follows its rhythm. He becomes a giant drum.

 

Birds shoot to the sky from all around when the nuts mix with pine cones and cigarette butts. Wind tangles leaves in his hair and tears at his leather jacket. Louis catcalls him when he stumbles along the labyrinthine path, his nose dipping to the damp earth and his fingers closing around vacuum. Around him the nuts skip and stoop out of reach

“You stole that one, didn’t you? And how’d you afford the nuts? Why nuts?”

Harry yanks up his jacket, examines the soft inside and dives his fingers into its pockets before he resumes his sloping stance.

“Why’d your goodbye at Liam’s take so long?” he says.

A subtle scoff puffs from Louis and his eyes roll to watch the current load of campers leave in a sputter of mud and exhaust on the cracked asphalt. “Okay.”

Maple leaves tickle any bit of bare skin they find and Harry itches at his throat when he makes his way back to the varnished bench, the bag of soiled nuts rustling by his side. Not enough room is given to sit when Louis stretches out the way he does. Harry cocks his head and moves the last distance with soft steps. “You know,” he says and drops the nuts in Louis’ lap, “I could steal you something else if you aren’t satisfied.”

Louis moves aside on the bench but Harry leans on the backrest, his curls electric in the moist air. Louis sighs and looks to him with heavy eyes. “Technically, if I were to ask you to steal, it wouldn’t be my fault.”

“Technically.” The bench groans when Harry sits down. “If it’ll stop your whining I’ll steal you a fur coat and lighter. My broke, and I’d been meaning to find a new one for a month before I met you and came up with the whole ‘saving money for emergencies’ thing. Vices aren’t considered an emergency, I guess.”

“I can’t picture you in the wild, even less by an open fire with a tiny lighter.”

“Well.” He lifts a pack of old cigarettes from the sweater tied around his waist. “All cool kids smoke.”

A swarm of screeching birds lift from a bush far opposite them, frightening the young couple and infant sat there. Cries soon echo over the vast clearing. Louis grins and twists deeper into his clothes. “Yeah. Food would be great.”

Harry nods, stands, and sweeps his gaze over the folks still packing stuff or relaxing in a plastic lounger. “Go find a good place by the lake and I’ll join you when I’ve got-“ A distressed shout and quick pattering of feet interrupts him. Both glance to a man scurrying their way, his eyebrows cutting his face in half and his meek hands grasping a thin scarf around his neck. He stops short a few feet from them and points to Harry’s jacket with a pant.

“That looks exactly like mine,” he says. His frown deepens to breach his forehead.

“Usually they make more than one, you know.”

“But that’s- that one’s from the sixties. They were only made in a hundred.”

Louis stands with his back crooked and coughs, scratching his stubble. The man looks to him in confusion. “They were,” he says, “and I gave one of them to my boy here when he turned seventeen. Kids and their vintage obsessions nowadays.”

The man gapes. “But I… You see, mine went missing just now when I was packing and I thought…” His voice fades when Louis ruffles Harry’s hair. “I’m sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry.” He departs with a morose countenance and slumps on a termite munched log by his camp.

Harry burkes a laugh. “Fuck the food. Let’s get out of here before he busts us.”

Trees fold alongside their path and the squishes and crunches beneath their boots tell the nature of two intruders. Not too far into the forest, the lake bares itself as a speckled mirror in the ground. The only piece missing from the picture is a snow-clad mountain in the distance.

Harry discards his jacket on the pebbled shore and spreads his arms wide in greeting.

“This,” he says and unties his shoelaces, kicking the footwear aside. “This was what I meant. Healthier and calmer than that city-crap you’re rolling with.” He yanks his socks off, curls up his jeans legs, and strides out in the lake. Somewhere along the way he takes a handful of water and empties it over himself.

“Does that satisfy you?” Louis says after the clinking of stones indicates his presence.

Harry grins. “And you don’t feel bad about this?” He motions to the excess garments and empty plastic bags.

Louis crouches and sloshes a finger round in the crystalline water. “I didn’t steal it, why should I feel bad?”

Harry wades back to shore and tosses him a pebble caught between his toes. After shaking and rubbing his glistening skin, he twists into his shoes.

“I have to go back later at night, grab some bread and salmon. Do you think there’s any fish in the lake? Because I swear I caught a glimpse of a fishing rod in one of the tents. Dad taught me a thing or two about them.” He freezes, his right shoe askew and his leg raised high. He turns to Louis. “Actually, you should join me. In case things go to shit like last time.”

Louis wipes his hands as Harry walks to tuck the jacket beneath a layer of moss.

“Do I have the option of setting up a camp?” he says.

“No. With you it’ll go quicker and maybe we’ll have proper dinner and thicker clothes by nightfall.” For a second Harry’s stomach churns. He arranges the final chunks of moss until his garments melt into the fungus and steers his steps back to the camping site. “Coming, daddy?”

When the souls of a billion stars emerge they sit by a poor excuse of a campfire. Its crackling mixes with the susurrating wind that yanks Harry’s curls and scoffs in his ear. On the single dry patch of earth lies a blanket and a half and dried beef they’ve stocked in washed-out bottles scattered over the area. Alcohol and smoked ham flavours the air. Each time Harry’s head tips forward he breathes a waft of the bitter mixture.

He leans back with a palm pressed to the cool ground and stares to a few stray potatoes rolling on Louis’ plate. “Maybe you should act my dad more often,” he says with a slow grin. “Don’t know what you consider a good job, but I think we accomplished something today. And you didn’t steal.”

Louis cuts the potato in half, sniffing it, and holds it over the fire. Up-close in the wild light Harry outlines every cut and amused streak in his face. “Believe the stubble or my words,” he says, “but I’m not old.”

“So, how _young_ are you?”

Flames lick at Louis’ hand and the potato drops to the smouldering ash. He curses. “Twenty-seven, soon.”

Harry stops his motions, the bottle’s rim resting on his bottom lip. The sensual throb in his throat grows as he snorts. “Shit,” he says and sips, every feature twisting at first taste. “Always figured you were, like, forty.” A quiet laugh slips from him. “I thought you at least knew what you were doing. Twenty-seven isn’t that old.”

“That’s what I said. I know more than well what I’m doing.” He reaches out a hand for Harry to grab onto as the man sways and his head rolls.

“How long-“ Harry hiccups. “How long have you drifted about?”

“Certainly longer than you have.”

Harry’s lips pucker in a cocky grin and he points the bottle to Louis. A tiny amount of golden liquid sloshes in the glass. He takes a second to widen his eyes and lower his voice. “Three months.”

Louis stabs his second potato and stuffs himself with it, speaking in slurs. “Definitely longer than you have.”

“Just fucking tell me.” In a moment Harry stands on all fours, crawling closer to the fire and poking at the charred potato with a damp stick. “I stole clothes for you.”

“And liquor you imbibed in a breath.”

He drops the stick and stands with a hand on his forehead. The flames build a city of his anxious shadow. Moths buzz in the dull light.

“I’m gonna go for a swim. Don’t hide my clothes while I’m in,” he says.

Green sunrays peek from the horizon, but the rest of the world lies cloaked in darkness. Amusement sparks on Louis’ lips. “Swim? You’re gonna freeze to death or drown, Harry. Both, maybe. _You_ insisted that we’d get the fire going as soon as possible.”

Bare-chested and with his foot stuck in the tight jeans, Harry stares back with a shrug. “Exactly. Keep it hot and steamy for my return. Don’t hide my clothes.” Before stripping, he faces the lake. Louis snatches the tossed underwear before they catch on fire. Only a splash tells about Harry’s dip and the silent ringlets washing to shore after the mass of his sinking body. The night swallows him whole, and Louis carries on munching while he has the peace.

Harry resurfaces, whiffing and slipping on the pebbles with his arms wound round his frame as he jogs to the fire. Faced away, Louis tosses the underwear and jeans to him. Once he stops shaking and holds the blanket over his chin he shakes his head. “Yeah. Fuck that.”

“It might help if you throw on a sweater,” Louis says.

“This isn’t something I’d do sober.” He scoots to the side, rocks knocking together beneath him, and cocks his head to Louis. Aside from the booze he’s got nothing to fall back on, yet his fingertips dance up Louis’ side until they press hard to his chest. Harry’s eyelids flutter and he draws Louis in with a single finger under his chin, tongue tracing the outline of his lip. Harry sighs and licks his mouth open, cups Louis’ neck and grasps his abrasive hair.

With a pant Louis pulls back. “This is?”

For a moment Harry contemplates whether to move or not before he yanks the strands in his neck and slants his head so his lips can fit with Louis’ sober ones. A moan escapes him as Louis squeezes his waist, dipping his fingers beneath the hem of his jeans. Bits of coal crackle from the fire and Harry regrets the bottle now cracked against the rocks. With it he bathes in an erotic haze.

Wet tresses brush against Louis’ cheek when Harry fists his shirt and laps at his throat in broad licks. Harry pulls the fabric taut and comes back up, lips parted, his smoky breaths hanging in the air. Everything burns around him, and that same fire reflects in Louis’ eyes, sizzling at the tip of his tongue. It tastes of thirst, peril, and he can’t satiate himself.

Their noses bump as he moves back and strokes his thumb down Louis’ cheek with a new-born grin. He maps out the damp lips before him and speaks as his besotted words fall away in Louis’ mouth. “Yeah. It is.”

 

He wakes Louis up by tossing countless rocks at him, half emerged in water. From twenty feet away he rolls his eyes at the groan Louis emits from a roll of torn clothes and stolen sleeping bags. Memories throb in his skull, mix in with the slumbering voice and chirping by the forest edge. After popping of a dying fire lulled them to sleep his mind eddied. Once an oasis, his wasteland lies desolate, and the one thing he remembers by a vivid emotion is the scrape of Louis’ marred mouth to his.

Nothing but Louis’ black eyes and a mitten-clothed hand pokes out beneath the dirty fabrics. A foreign black and yellow bobble hat hugs his skull and slips off when he glowers at the man, the corners of his mouth fixated in a downward curve.

“My back hurts,” Harry says and approaches their bedding with long, gentle steps over invisible pine cones jammed between grits and a dozen pebbles fisted in hand. “Get up.”

“Massage?”

Harry dismisses the offer. “You or me? Granted, I need it more than you after last night.” A lazy grin colours his mouth.

Cranes gather along the lake’s faraway borders, trumpeting in raucous melodies that have Louis diving back into his sleeping bag. Harry ambles closer and yanks on his socks. His heart flurries at Louis’ coarse voice.

“I usually ditch my dates before they wake up,” he says in a yawn. “Stomp out the fire, will you?”

It still scorches under the charred wood. Harry’ grey, mud-caked boot burkes the lambent life, and he crouches by Louis’ head. Folded arms lift his chin so he can glance to the bleak treetops, following the breeze. In the morning glow Harry detects nothing of the excitement and famine from last night in Louis’ features. None of the bold tendencies or the fierce initiative, things Harry only saw in his late daydreams. Maybe the alcohol distorted his view.

“Up north will turn into a freezer in a month or two,” he says, spitting into the ashes.

“I always wanted to visit Nashville. That’s south.”

“What a keen observer you are.”

Harry rummages through their pile of goods while Louis treads out from his cocoon, the pallid sunshine one giant spotlight in his eyes. Rips form on his dry lips and he sits by the water to rub it into his skin, sucking at his lip, lapping blood. Falcons howl and the cranes keep up their nuisances. Around him cold water courses down his swollen throat and for good measure he dips his head, opening his mouth below the tranquil surface. Camping isn’t as bad as he thought.

Once he can speak without tearing his vocal chords apart, and Harry sits with his back crooked, carving long stripes of wood that spirals down the blade by the end of each cut, he proposes an offer to stay in place for a week or two. Harry frowns and puts the knife away before he severs his fingers.

“Actually, it’s getting cold these days. We should ‘get a move on’. Your words, not my,” he says. “Michigan this time of year… It’s best to leave while we still have daylight.”

“You don’t dictate where we go,” Louis says. “New people roll in everyday here, and as long as the grass doesn’t frost at night we can stay here and pluck the newbies. More supplies, more money. Next time we can check into a hotel, with proper isolation and all.”

Harry snaps the stick he works on and buries it in the moss. “You don’t steal.”

“I don’t. I stand on the side. You do.”

A large pine cone between them falls victim for Harry’s rough hands when he picks the extremities from its body. Splinters catch underneath his nails and soon blood prickles his fingertips.

“Everyone is a fucking liar,” he says.

Louis lifts his eyebrows and stares to the man’s hands. “And that wasn’t your initial thought about the street? Poppet, do you know what you’ve gotten into?”

The voice in Harry’s head peaks and buzzes at the words. He tugs at his hair and shirt, forcing air to his chest where sweat beads in large masses. The cone drops and he has to cover his face to regain control. Nothing about his struggle marks as odd to Louis, who sighs and takes the knife from his feet, discarding it by the rest of their stuff.

“Stop sulking,” Louis says. He leaves to lie atop his sleeping bag, arms braced under his head and the stripped sky hangs before his eyes.

Even with Louis’ departure, the voice hollers and rumbles through Harry’s marrow. It’s been months since it hit him this bad. Darkness blooms over his vision and the voice floats away in the same action, so he sits, abandoned and emotionless until everything heats up inside him. He never knows where it flees, but the moment he takes a step in the wrong direction or speaks too long it sizzles back in his veins, tainting his blood white hot.

After it cools down and offers him control, he walks to Louis, his long shadow falling over the man.

“Let’s just ditch this place,” he says. Louis glances to him. “Raid the camp one more time and get the hell out. You said we would.”

“Where are you headed?” Louis says and hugs his knees.

“Elsewhere. To find a hotel in a warmer state. The night was great, but my toes went numb and I couldn’t breathe. It’s never been this bad.”

“I beg to differ.” He nods, pets Harry firm calf and hoists himself up. “Fine. You steer the ship. Go do your raiding thing and I’ll fix us some money.”

“So that we can take the train instead of riding with a sixty year old creep?”

Louis pats his cheek, his touch inked on Harry’s skin.

Heat lingers on Harry’s skin when Louis bends to grab an extra coat from the ground and heads for the camping site. He blinks as the man shrinks and his fervent heart thumps. Grasping a sweater himself, he hurries after, grabs Louis’ wrist and stops him. He receives a confused stare. It melts off when he leaves an open-mouthed kiss to Louis’ mouth. Sighs fall from their lips and Harry holds his waist close, licking in deep and slow the way he figured good-morning kisses would work. With a quick nibble he lets go and strokes Louis’ hair back, staring at the gentle wide eyes and dirty skin.

This time he’s the one to leave Louis behind with a rock of yearning in his gut. To spare the tides of arousal that’ll drown him he focuses on the leafy path and clattering of cutlery and laughter from a barbecue. While he’s at it he can steal a steak or four.

No one recognizes him in the muddy tank top and with the sweater as a second identity he slips away unnoticed, no trouble or interrogation to follow. Another quick chat and drink, a slick distraction, thirteen lies, and the sun rests on the treetops by the time his pockets are packed with tomatoes and deodorant. He shrugs on the final item of clothing and yanks his hood up afore he perches on a decayed table, thumbing the supplies he’s obtained as he searches for Louis. Not in the past two hours has he spotted the man, so he sits in clear sight here on the table in wait.

Every time someone examines him his breath hitches and he tugs the sweater over his nose. Maybe they watch his long legs and tear in his jeans, or the patches of hair bunching outside his hood, but their eyes burn right through him. It’s high school all over again. Not even the voice appears to soothe his qualms.

It helps picturing Louis’ pink lips pressed to his skin, his itchy stubble and the subtle quirk of his nose. Harry twitches and hides his face in the blue fabric with a groan. They need to catch a ride soon, or get to a train station before his butt cheeks turn to ice.

Louis pops up by his side, hands deep in his coat pockets and red marks over his skin.

“Got use for my favours,” he says and sniffles. Harry hands him a torn napkin and shivers when the evening zephyr crashes down.

“Let’s go. You’ve already gotten a cold.”

 

 

**September**

 

Hotels aren’t generally dumps, Harry’s been told, but as with all things, an exception comes along once in a while. It isn’t in such a wretched state where cockroaches skip over the floor, or water seeps out over gaping chunks of clinker after a reckless shower adventure. Curtains hang in torn stripes over the coffee-stained windows where a spider web spans over the faded surfaces. In between the floorboards he catches glimpses of various plants and tools lost in the depths, and when he dumps his bag in the corner next to a bunch of murky yellowed sheets, the planks creak. Nothing but damp earth and a broken foundation lies below, so he tiptoes over to the boxy TV and flicks all switches and buttons there.

Louis sighs from the door and pushes it shut with a click. It’s the one thing in here that doesn’t emit a woeful cry when touched. After white noise crackles in their ears and Harry stops abusing the 90’s creation, Louis falls to the bed, his few belongings strewn in front of the doorway.

“This is the life,” he says with a soft moan, curling deeper into his duvet.

“You’re shitting me. The ads didn’t look like this.” A wrinkle crosses over Harry’s forehead and with shaky movements he lifts the TV to the floor and sits on its stand. “The lobby didn’t look this. Those fucking liars, this is false advertising. I can- I will sue the shit out-“

“Poppet,” Louis says. “Don’t tell me you were expecting Plaza. Sit down, steal a beer, kick up your feet on the table and chill out for one second. It’s not getting any better than this.”

Harry shakes his head and sneaks a glance on the street. From this hill the village lies misty below, and people with flashlights and wanton dogs step in view, out of the rosebushes and rotten branches crowding the hotel window. When the putrid tree scent reaches him he yanks off his sweater and folds it along the edge of the glass.

Harry wipes dust from his palms and gazes to the man. A blemished blanket cloaks Louis’ face, the corner of his mouth just peeking up above the fabric. “How come you never ‘have a beer’ with me?” he says.

“I don’t drink.”

“That’s ridiculous.” He falls onto the bed, startling the exhausted man lying there. Instead of going on a tirade he climbs up the bedding to Louis’ level and throws a leg and arm over him. In this lighting his shadow falls like a veil on Louis’ body, coating his lips a darker red, one that isn’t bitten by the weather, but pure temptation. It’s been far too long.

“Comfortable?” Heavy breaths and electricity hangs at a stand-by in the air between them. Harry shifts down his body, lowering his pelvis in a slow grind against Louis’ thigh. He moans at the burn of arousal, moving back down.

“Yeah,” Louis says and his breath hitches when Harry bites his lip.

Stains and all, the familiar rub of sheets beneath his palms offers a comfort. His hand loosens on the fabric, skims up Louis’ clothed chest and pins him to the mattress. Louis stares up at him, his irises blown to coal and his cool lips parted, twitching with each grind of Harry’s hips. Sweat already grazes the man’s forehead and Harry bends down, his back curved to pleasure his hard cock as his lips seek out the salty traces painted on Louis’ skin.

“God, you’re sloppy,” Louis moans, his fingers nestling deep into Harry’s hair, damp from the outside pattering.

At those words Harry gives a sharp pinch to his nipple, tonguing out at his earlobe in a jagged drag. It tastes like sin.

“It’d be great if you’d blow me now,” he says. Louis’ smile fades against his lips for a split-second before he nudges a knee in between his thighs, rubbing gentle circles to his crotch.

“How much?”

Harry sucks below his ear and feels out his chest with rubs that flick his hardened nipple back and forth. A quiet snort of amusement comes from Harry. “What?”

“How much?”

The laughter dies on his tongue when he pushes away to look Louis in the eye. The rugged hands resting on his lower back move to toy with his zipper, accompanied by an inquiring gaze from below.

“Money-wise?” The silence assents. “You do that shit?”

“Yes.”

Harry’s lips freeze and he slides to the side of the bed, his erection ebbing away between his thighs. “Wow.” His laugh jars through the room. “That’s disgusting. How many guys have you sucked off in the back of a shady bar? Or is it always like this; hidden away in a cheap hotel room, taking it raw? Without condoms or lube or dignity? Do you even know what latex is?” He listens to the slow drumming on the window as an attempt to ice his emotions. Rain works for a mollified mind-set, he’s heard. Bullshit. “Do you have a pimp?”

Louis arranges his shirt and swipes a hand through his hair, his own rigidity prodding against the seam of his jeans. With a minute or two to adjust, his heartbeat should regress to average. Still it thumps like he’s about to jump from a bridge, imitating Harry’s tongue with its hot and risky pace.

“No,” he says. “I don’t have a pimp. I’m fine on my own.”

“That’s how we get lifts, ain’t it?” Harry’s tone holds a severe waver to it. To his shock he hears no objections to his reaction from the voice in his head. It floats off in the distance, curls around the bed to rest while leaving him to fend for himself, figure it all out.

“Would you stop asking such shitty questions?” Louis snaps. “You’re not _that_ dumb.”

The door’s slam rings out in the flat until the pattering outside increases to a full-blown tempest.

Harry stomps down the labyrinthine corridors and winds up in the lobby. Gloomy light spits down on the weathered desktop, its bleak shine attracting moths and steamy air. Little bits of wood and water sails in the atmosphere. He waves it away and sinks down in one of four scarlet armchairs lined by the walls. It’s the kind he’s seen in old movies displaying various haunted manors, but these seats have spots of permanent juice-spill on them instead of intricate gold-threads along the sides.

Hours pass before the thundering outdoors rises to the point where the receptionist wakes from her slumber and comes to realization that there’s a man waiting to be served. No one should sit in a chair like that for too long.

“Sir,” she says with a thick rasp.

“What?”

“Is there a problem?” She straightens her back and arranges her blouse, flicking on a lamp next to her. It illuminates a giant cup of coffee and stacks of paper.

Harry loses himself in the tiny text on the cup before he cracks his neck and leans forward in his seat. “Do you have a beer?”

Her chair skids across the grimy boards and she drags out drawers below the desk, sighing when she comes up blank and walks into the back of her small office. She comes back with a thermos in hand.

“Don’t think we’ve had alcohol here since o-five,” she says and points the thermos to him. “Would hot chocolate please, sir?”

So no coffee either.

“Yeah, why the hell not.”

He trudges over to her and leans forward, both palms pressed flat to the desk as she pours him a cup. “Not allowed to drink on the job?”

She sighs and screws the thermos shut, places it by the far end of the stacked papers and gazes up at him with russet eyes. “Need to stay awake. And alive.”

As opposed to what beer would do to his throat, this milky substance cool his nerves in a way rain would never achieve. Its hot edge faded long ago, and maybe that’s for the best. He twirls it around in his cup so it sloshes over the rim. A delicate smile forms on his lips.

“It’s late isn’t it?” From the corner of his eye she nods. He leaves the drink in front of her and looks at the rest of the lobby. Everything sulks, every furniture and ornament weeps at its bad treatment.

His legs have failed him and keep blistering when he forces them forward in a casual manner back through the hallway. The door to his room stands ajar, white noise crackling inside. A shape towers in the pale light, his shoulders slumped and his hands working the remote.

With few creaks Harry makes his way forward and sneaks his arms around Louis’ waist.

“You know that’s not gonna do anything,” he says.

The man tenses as Harry takes the remote from his hands and switches off the TV, tossing it to the bed.

“When you…” He swallows. “When you’re out and about, do you use condoms?”

“Discussing that again, are you?”

Harry exhales, his grasp tightening with a shake of his head.

“Louis.” He presses a light kiss below Louis’ ear. “I don’t mind that you’re a whore. It’s vile, but you’re still you, and I like you.”

He tugs at the hem of Louis’ jeans, running his fingertips over the man’s hipbones and abdomen.

“Stop,” Louis says. When Harry doesn’t move he shrugs him off and walks to his bed, placing the discarded remote on the TV stand. He continues to the bathroom and splashes his face in the sink.

A worn reflection of Harry’s body leaning by the doorway appears in the mirror when Louis comes back up.

“Do you like me?” he says.

Dirt from Louis’ nails swirl into the drain and for another minute he scrubs without interruption. While he has the opportunity he likes to be thorough. A clean boy is a happy boy. He rests his hands on the sink and leans his body forward so his hair swings forward. In between the strands Harry’s reflection stands frozen.

“I do,” he says. “I think you’re great and unbelievably imprudent. But you’re still young and new and just…”

Harry smiles and steps into the room. “Stubborn.”

“You are.”

He takes Louis’ hand in his, brushing the knuckles as he bends over to see beneath the long hair. “No one will care. We can do this.”

Louis keeps his eyes closed at the caress of Harry’s lips on the edge of his dark stubble. Harry dips lower and tugs aside the shirt collar, nosing down to the top of his shoulder blades and sucks violet marks. The pleasured sound bounces between the lime-clinkered walls, but dies off before breaching them. No one outside of the room knows of their presence.

At Harry’s sharp bite his fingers tighten around the porcelain and his back arches.

Harry chuckles. “You’re so flustered.”

“Don’t bite me, Harry.” The collar constricts around his throat the more uncovered his back becomes.

“Lift your arms. C’mon.”

Once Louis complies, Harry creates a struggle of stripping him of his shirt and purrs when it finally heaps on the ground. “Oh, baby.”

Aside from the rips of nails down his back, Louis’ skin is immaculate. Here and there hills of knots or rashes rise up and between lies a velvet ocean filled with possibilities. Harry strokes along his spine, his palm skimming over bloodied scabs and the span of his back.

As he kneels, Harry grasps Louis’ waist and kisses his clothed thigh. Heat smears through the fabric and continues to follow the trail of Harry’s mouth as his hands squeeze the narrow hips above. Every faint tremble passes his lips, every moan and sigh vibrates through him before dissolving. The desire burns hotter than ever in his gut.

He comes back up and places a gentle hand on Louis’ stomach, leaning forward to kiss his mouth while his fingers open up his denims and graze his soft cock.

A whine tears from Louis’ throat and he shoves Harry away, facing the man with a tense demeanour and his feet pointed to the door.

Harry’s forehead creases and his lips purse. Confusion swirls in his obscure eyes.

“You’re scared,” he says.

“I don’t want to do this,” Louis says and takes a step toward the door. “I told you to back off. I’m not a whore.” While Harry resembles himself, Louis leaves the room and his shirt, falling between the tawny sheets that wire around his body like snares. Soon enough Harry joins him by the side of the bed.

“Come on, baby,” Harry says. “You let some sixty year old freak fuck you, but I can’t even touch? I’m not them. Let me do you a favour for once. I’ll be so gentle with you.”

Those blue eyes stare to him for a while before shifting to the window. Streetlights set the floorboards afire, but Louis pays far too much attention to them than he should. Harry climbs onto the bed and straddles him.

“Louis?”

 At the deep voice, he braces his arms above his head, his toes twitching. Harry shakes the bed with the drop of his pelvis to Louis’ crotch and it creaks, a delightful symphony in Harry’s mind.

He presses Louis down with his fingertips, the desire peaking anew as Louis’ lips fall apart in a sharp breath. He takes note of the tense muscles below him and caresses Louis’ upper chest. Ribs rise like mountains under his rough palm and shudder with Louis’ heaves. He wants to feel them press to his naked chest, for Louis’ chest hair to tickle his nipples as their bodies move together as one entity with nothing but the taste of Louis’ wet skin in his mouth. His voice sinks to a whisper against the smooth complexion.

“Don’t worry. This will be good.”

Louis stares down at Harry’s fingers as they strip him of the rough garment and runs over his foreskin.

“No teeth,” Harry says, his heavy voice trembling in a breath to Louis’ abdomen. Those dark lips widen in a grin and he tugs the loose briefs aside, wedging Louis’ fleshy tip in his mouth. He stays wary of biting down as the first salty hints of precome dribbles down his throat, though the taste evokes sinister thoughts in him.

He wets the glans with a slow curl of his tongue, glancing up at the sheen in Louis’ face. For now he ignores his own erection where it prods to his jeans and hopes to be satisfied with the pleasure he’ll awake in Louis and the sounds to follow.

Louis’ shallow breaths fill the room and his gentle thrusts stutter as Harry dips to his balls and runs a blunt nail over the sack.

“Easy,” he murmurs.

A soft moan billows from his lips when he licks around the shiny slit, his hands spanned out over Louis’ exquisite bum and hips. He kneads the flesh in his hands as he tilts his head and lets his throat adjust to the familiar intrusion. After gagging, he eases up, taking half the cock between his puffy lips and flattens his tongue to the fat shaft.

Louis keens in surprise and squeezes his thighs together when the tip of Harry’s tongue teases his wet slit to where blood rushes in masses, preparing for his vicious release. His hips buck up. Spit slobbers down his shaft when Harry pulls off and frowns. He pants, hissing as Harry’s hands leave his ass and claw into his hips, pressing his entire body to the mattress.

Content, Harry smiles for a brief second before going down on him. One of his hands leaves Louis’ hips with the outlines of a bruise and strokes down his warm thigh, his lithe fingertips circling over Louis’ heavy balls. As his tongue laps at the swollen glans in broad licks, his fingers roll quicker, and a long smile bares itself over his mouth. The precome smeared all over his cherry lips glistens in the faint lighting.

Twitches coarse through Louis’ body when Harry twists his wrist in the most sinful ways, drawing an imminent orgasm closer by the second. He braces himself, winds his hands deep into the sheets as those sinful lips curl around his cock and takes him all the way in. When Harry’s mouth slip open in a small grin as he comes back up, Louis comes on him with a hoarse moan, like all air withdraws from his lungs. His legs clench around Harry’s body and he watches through lidded eyes as come streaks up Harry’s cheeks. The light doesn’t waver in Harry’s eyes, and he opens his mouth to swallow any trace of the succulent liquid he can.

Harry’s head drops next to Louis’ cock and his eyes flutter closed. He kisses the bulbous shaft, nosing into the pubic hair and sighs. When his heartbeat slows to normal he runs his finger from the base and up, circling it over the white coated tip. He gives the saturated glans a final lick and wipes his mouth from the substance. His smile grows wide as he stands and watches Louis regain his breath. He falls to his own bed where he bounces, arms high above his head.

Louis lies still as Harry’s fervent breaths calm into sighs of slumber, undressed from the waist and below with come etched into the sheets around him. Handprints sit imprinted on his ass, as do marks of nails down his sides. He lets out a shaky breath and tucks himself back in to the sound of the ancient shower running. The fabric chafes against his skin and his lower back aches, irate over his cheeks where Harry clawed.

 

 

**October**

The call comes past midnight just as Harry stops twisting on the concrete and takes a horizontal position by the wall.

“Yes?”

Heavy breathing floats through the line, a faint crackling in his ears.

“ _Hey_.”

He sits up and hitches his sweater and leather jacket around his torso. Cold washes over his arms and naked ankles, but that one word makes him ignore it. He rubs his eyes, pulling his knees up high to his chin and observes the few people wandering town in the gloom.

“Louis?”

“ _You need to come here._ ”

“No. Mind explaining why the hell you’re calling me?”

“ _I can’t, but look, I really need-_ “

“A _phone_ , Louis.” He snatches his light backpack from under the container and shrugs it on, adjusting the scarf around his head as he paces down the pavement past a group of teenagers. They holler and throw cans at him when he passes.

“ _Just come to the crossroad. It will all make sense if you just get over here. Please._ ”

Red lights flicker on by the road and spit their shine across his face.

“What crossroad?”

“ _The one outside of town you wouldn’t stop talking about. Don’t try to sneak when you approach it. Wave your hands so we can see you._ ”

“We?” It flashes to green and Harry crosses with swift steps, picking a cigarette from his jacket. Out of comfort he reaches into his pocket and grabs for a lighter. He sighs when his only find are Louis’ mittens, their fingertips clipped with mud dominating most of the fabric. “That sounds like a party,” he says.

Shouts buzz in the background and Louis draws a long breath. “ _You have no idea. Come as fast as you can._ ” The call clicks finished.

For mid-October the air swells. The ghostly landscape before him becomes less daunting and instead something shown on Halloween to scare toddlers, not twenty year olds. It doesn’t help his mood, or his sight, dim of exhaustion. Whenever they talk nowadays he notices Louis’ apprehensive edge and how he cuts his replies short, if they come at all. Was he bad in bed? Breezes pass along leaves to one another that swirl before his feet, desperate to steal his attention. All he can think about is Michigan.

When he stumbles upon the beaten pickup truck down by the crossroad it hits him how far from home he is. Everything lies desolate aside from the maroon vehicle, its hood dull like the rest of its varnish. Next to the hood leans a man, his head tilted down beneath a large hat. Louis paces before him with sharp and precise steps

Harry hesitates, but lifts his arms in a wide wave as he continues forward. Both men examine him and Louis falls out of rhythm when he rushes away from the car. Gravel spatters around him and even with the grand distance between them Harry hears the pants falling from his lips.

Harry offers a grin the moment Louis stops. The man keeps his hands deep in his pockets, his gaze not straying above Harry’s throat.

"This is the first time we've spoken in-"

“Because I told you to stop.”

“You said ‘yes’, and if that isn’t consent I don’t know what is.”

Finally Louis looks at him. In the absence of light to illuminate him, his features lie shadowed and his eyes build mirrors. His shoulders lift high in an exhale.

“He wants to tie me up,” he says.

“What?” Harry glances to the pickup and ensnaring flare from a thin cigarette. “That guy?”

“Could be anyone for all I care. You have to watch me.”

Harry steps forward, chest to chest with the man, and cups his cheeks. They’re even cooler than his palms. In the short moment of touch the familiar resentful vibe blows past in Louis’ eyes. The man grabs his wrists and makes a motion to yank them away. Instead he lets them sit and draws a long sigh from his lungs. With the low temperatures, Harry’s grasp is enough to bruise.

“You have to make sure that he doesn’t snatch me,” Louis says, pushing off one of his hands.  “I’ll have my hands and feet trapped so if he starts the car or rummages around in the car, slam his head to the steering wheel and untie me. Hit him unconscious and bolt. Okay?”

Rosy fingerprints appear on Louis’ cheek as Harry rubs it warm and cocks his head. His heart has longed for touch, to hold Louis in his arms. “Why this? Aren’t there loads of people out there, waiting to have their turn with you? This is dangerous.”

Louis scoffs. “It’s six hundred bucks, Harry. I’ve never been offered that kind of currency before. Just make sure he doesn’t snatch me and I’ll have enough money to buy decent lunch and outerwear.”

A car horn rings out over the wasteland. The man drops his cigarette and stomps it out, stares straight over to them and calls for Louis. His voice is wrecked and torn, but battered or not it’s a call Louis answers to. It tugs the rent boy deep into the night, out of Harry’s embrace, and it takes no more than that realization for him to shout.

“He won’t hurt you, right?”

His words halt Louis’ steps for a second and he turns around, his face void before a grin breaks through.

“Would you care?”

The man greets him with a pinch to his ass and pulls him in, like a wind robs trees of their leaves. As the man folds him into his arms and hoists him up on the bed, Harry nears with quiet steps. He’d rather be stuck in a dull city than here. Even trapped in a whiffy tomb would be better than this sight.

He hopes for the bothersome voice to join him, but lately it’s been just him and his thoughts. He doesn’t know what to do on his own. It’s guided him since Brick, told him what to do when Louis robbed him and steered him on the right path whenever he said something wrong. Now he hasn’t heard it for weeks.

The two men murmur and grope, and from where Louis lies, arms on his chest as the man removes his jeans with sharp tugs, Harry thinks he can see the stars. The vehicle’s sides cover up both bodies, but even with the distance between them, moans and pleads fly over the plains and make his blood rush and his icy limbs rustle back to life.

It shouldn’t be like this. Hoarse, breathless whimpers and pleads for more rise in the air as the slamming on metal continues and the man yanks his hair back. Finally, he burkes the raw sounds with a gag and fumbles around for something buried next to him.

Harry moves closer to catch a glimpse and take the possible gun from him. When everything comes in view he realizes that it’s lube and a condom from Louis’ pocket. Not any kind of weapon. The man hisses as his fingers work at his stiff cock and deliver sharp thrusts Louis’ hole, going quicker until the precome glistening on his tip thickens enough to dribble. He slaps his reddened cock to Louis’ rear and tugs his head back, circling it around Louis’ puckered rim as he slides in and out of him with wet sluggish noises.

When Louis notices Harry’s presence he faces away, his body red all over and his eyes blown wide. Whines emerge around the gag, his legs fighting to break loose as the man quits toying with him and thrusts in, hands pressed to his shoulder blades so his wan body sheds skin against the metal bed.

Echoes of their messy encounter loop in Harry’s head and he steps out of view, leaning against one of the closed doors. Blocking out the nuisances doesn’t help. It keeps going and the vehicle sways behind him, so in fear of missing an eventual threat he listens in for any disgruntled sound from Louis, anything that can put them in danger.

The night air catches up to him, biting at his face and chest. Four layers of abandoned and stolen goods do nothing good to keep him warm. Louis lies stripped to the bone up in the back, his lips swollen and his limbs iced, and the man warms him up inside out with heavy pounds to his thin hips and those hands, twisted-

Harry shivers.

Back in town he’ll attack those teenagers and steal their cash, and Louis and he can spend a night in a hot hotel bed, curled up under the duvet, or take a long shower together, wash off the cold and fluids all over his man.

Their rough noises are enough to haunt his dreams for weeks to come. He knows how fantastic it must feel to be buried between Louis’ hot cheeks and feel the drag of his jagged walls. Just curling his fingers inside the man, slow enough to count each bump clenching around his digits, listening to the small gasps emitted and taking his cock deep in his throat would’ve brought him to the edge. Had it been him up there it would’ve gone slow, like he promised, and the gentle press of his hips would make Louis tremble in his arms.

The vehicle sways to the side, the slick sound of skin to skin and items rustling against the metal bed mixes in with Louis’ cries. Never has his walls fallen like this. Once Harry realizes that Louis sobs with each slap inflicted on his skin, his heart freezes, and he jumps up on the bed.

The stranger glances to him and maintains his gaze, curls an arm around Louis and holds him close as his hips jerk to Louis’ ass and grumbles spill from his lips. It’s black, the cloth tied around Louis’ mouth, and the excess fabric hanging by his neck is long enough to twist around one’s wrist and seize. The man holds it wired down and Louis’ spine curves to his chest, his head falling to the man’s shoulder as the aforesaid reaches around to graze his bloated cock for the first time.

Without waiting to see the scene unfold, Harry grabs the man’s throat and hauls his body away from Louis, down on the icy gravel. As he clutches the bastard below him and his grip tightens little by little, that familiar presence returns to him. At first it’s a soft touch, allowing him to let the man’s gurgles and Louis’ calls fade to background noise. Comfort crashes down like tides and he drifts off, the weight beneath him growing dull and distant. The voice screams in his ears, a shrill jeer that makes his skin jump off his bones and his hands drop the man’s neck. Harry socks him in the jaw and watches his head roll aside, blood trickling from his lips in between the stones.

He stumbles to his feet, faltering, and reaches up to untie Louis. His Louis, whose body is bruised and pale, and whose back gains new tears of nails scratching him bloody.

Even with the gag removed and Harry crouching next to him, no coherent words come from his mouth. Salty tears dip to his white lips as Harry dresses him in briefs and a jacket and bunches the rest of his clothes in a cold hand. He slides his jeans and socks on, finding his shoes after a blind moment and slides from the car, spitting on the man’s naked and unconscious body as he passes. A bundle of cash peeks out of his open pocket.

Harry scurries after, wraps his arm around Louis’ skinny and noses along his scalp.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says into the sweaty hair.

Louis shoves him into a ditch, wipes his tears, and picks up his pace. Another exasperated growl builds in his throat when Harry scrambles up and trails after.

“So you’re better than him?” His voice lifts to a shout. “You with your fucking attitude and prejudices can just walk around without admitting that you’re wrong while the rest of us take the blame and the shit thrown at us? You’re the most atrocious human being I’ve ever come across and I hope you rot. For once in your life-“ His voice breaks in time with his façade to crash down. He falls to his knees in the middle of the road, sobbing and scratching his thighs, hitting them until Harry dares to reach out a hand and stop him. Night air whooshes into his lungs and he gasps into Harry’s chest, feet dangling over nothing but bad memories as Harry lifts him up and wanders in the town’s general direction. There are only so many roads they can travel before finding their way.

The frostbite in their cheeks drip off once heat from isolated walls wraps around them and Louis sits sheathed in five white towels on the floor. Harry places a stool next to him and leans forward, steam billowing from the mug in his hands.

“Didn’t think he was gonna let us in for a second there,” Harry says with a small smile. “But at least the floorboards are adjoined.” Sticky curls fall over his face and shield him from seeing Louis’ reaction, but from the lack of sounds and protests there is none to see. His fingertips drum on the mug’s side as he regards Louis, his light thoughts blackening as the voice walks away to cast him in the dark. The more time that passes, the more it controls him. It knows Louis better than he does.

The soft fabric drop from Louis’ shoulders as he slumps. One of his thin locks hangs askew, pointing to the side instead of smoothing down along his jaw.

Harry licks over a tear in his lip and exhales. “So, I was wrong?”

Louis reaches out a hand, motioning for the watery coffee with one finger. Harry hands it to him, staying silent as he sips and scrunches his nose. His movements remain jerky, but at least colour paints his face rosy again.

“Took you that long, did it?” he says and guzzles the liquid in a single gulp that leaves his face distorted for a second. He hands it back to Harry.

After placing the mug out of reach, Harry crouches behind him and picks with the towels the shed clothing he has to offer, bundling them up around Louis while he’s zoned out, dealing with the horrid drink he digested.

“Don’t do that.”

Harry freezes and resists the urge to straighten a rumpled piece by the man’s shoulder. He slides back on his stool without uttering a peep. It takes a few long moments of clipped breathing and tense muscles before his courage returns and he clasps his hands beneath his chin.

“Can you please tell me what I did wrong?” he says. “I promise to listen. And I won’t yell at you.”

“You molested me,” Louis says. “Back in Illinois.”

“I’d never do that you.” He knows not to talk back, but the words jump from his throat. Louis stiffens. He shakes his head and bites his tongue. “Never have I done anything to harm you, unlike those sleazeballs you see every night. I was gentle with you. If I’d known anything wasn’t right with you, I-“

“But you knew. I told you over and over and I would’ve bolted if you hadn’t held me down. What’s your biased perception of this?”

The cool barely keeps his frustration at bay. He weaves a strand around his finger and takes a moment to breathe. He’d never imagined this conversation to ever occur in his presence, let alone with him painted as the villain.

“Louis,” he says. He slips to the floor and curls up in front of the man, grabbing his chapped hands. As he speaks he caresses the bright knuckles and follows the slow motion with his gaze. A dense lump expands in his throat. “I’m sorry I hurt you. Before you say something I just want you to know that it was never my intention and that I won’t do it again. I really like you.”

Louis’ lips burst in pink when he gnaws on them, more kissable than ever before.

“Don’t near me like that,” he says and stands up, slithering out of his clothes while facing the bed pushed to a faraway corner of the room. Washed sheets swallow him up in bed once he falls to the mattress and turns his back against Harry who swallows the lump that only expands with each clogged breath. “Goodnight.”

The jam eases in time with Louis’ slow breaths and the rasp in his throat, but Harry doesn’t say his goodnight until midnight. Hollers come from gangs roaming the streets outside and the bottles crashing to the ground swallows up his spineless apologies. Somewhere in the distance a drunken laughter rips through the air.

 

 

It isn’t until a week after that they get going again. For each passing day the voice in his head gets worse. Maybe it’s got something to do with the cold.

“Louis?” he says.

Last night earned them dinner tasting of peach and rubbery sausages, and paid for a quarter of a day in the same hotel they’d been huddled in all week. Soon as he stumbled through the door, Louis fell into bed, his blue lips parted and the hickey on his chest glowing in the ambience. Harry didn’t get the chance to speak for one second as Louis’ calm snores soon occupied his mind.

Here, by the desolate highway, everything about him speaks of exhaustion. The sacks under his eyes dim out in the morning light, as if foundation had been batted onto his skin at the break of dawn. The teeth marks over his abdomen tell a different story.

“Louis?” Harry’s voice falters in a sharp cough that falls away in the howling wind. He’s never liked autumn. Barren woods rise like tall statues in the distance on either side of the road. Cold obliterates all colours from the landscape, leaving it washed-out and fitting for a horror flick. The only thing missing is a madman with a chainsaw and he’d be content. It all reminds him of the trips he took up north as a child.

A tarnished lorry reveals itself far up the road, a guiding light over the misty grounds. Louis thrusts up a thumb and stops by the side, dropping their packing with a loud clatter. Harry hurries forward and drops his own items.

“Do you have a sec?” he says, stretching his crooked back with a soft groan.

Louis mutters something and his waving turns erratic as the vehicle nears. To Harry’s surprise it brakes, rolling up to them on the gravel. Behind the wheel sits a man in a hefty winter jacket, his eyes bright and face a light frown. He opens the door.

“Can I help you with anything?” Sharp teeth glimmer in the gap between his thin lips.

Louis leans against the vehicle’s side, one arm up high to the frame and the other by his hip.

“We’d like a ride, if you’d offer one,” he says. “Anyplace warmer and I’ll pay.”

The driver stares between them for a moment, settling back in his slouchy seat. He strokes his clean-cut jaw, turns up the heat further to redden his blemished cheeks, and laughs.

“I’d rather fuck him,” he says with a nod to Harry, slumped a few feet away. “Hard and fast. Bet he’s whiny.”

Louis strokes away a tress blown into his eyes, slings the packing onto his back, and glares at Harry. “C’mon.” White stripes surge from his mouth as he picks up their forgotten pace, moving away from the lorry in long steps.

Items scatter around Harry when he tries to grab them and he tears the mittens from his stiff fingers for a firmer grip before he can follow. A sharp whistle sounds from behind them and he spins around to see the driver leaning against his vehicle, arms folded over his chest and hands seeking warmth in his clothed armpits. Looking ahead again he avoids walking into Louis by an inch. The packing shouldn’t be as heavy as it is, but with it on his limbs, it strains his body. They stop at the end of the truck and Harry drops the packing again in a sigh.

“What?” he says. “You couldn’t have been indecisive a minute ago?”

“Can you drive?”

Harry drops the last strap of his backpack. “What? I’ve taken dad’s car out a few times, but that was years ago.”

Louis leaves him, dumbstruck, and marches over to the smug driver whose lips widen in a grin and a darker whistle. It vanishes the second Louis kicks his knees. They buckle, and as shock blooms over his face Louis delivers a second kick to his crotch. His body barrels to the asphalt with a strangled yelp, blood sloshing from his maw on impact. The black liquid follows him down in the ditch where he writhes and squeezes around his bony knees, sharp rocks ripping his jacket apart with each woeful twist.

When the indignant grunts reach his ears, Harry rushes over to Louis’ side and stares at the driver’s meek form, his bleak eyes shrunken to dots. Is this is a common happening he just hasn’t witnessed yet? An icy gust wafts past his side and when he turns his back on the driver Louis sits perched in the car, sleeping bags and thermoses all in his lap.

“Poppet,” he says, his grim features heating by the moment. God, heat.

Harry scrambles up in the vehicle, slams the door and gawks to the side of the road. He raps his fingers against the steering wheel. The highway lies infinite before him, dipping down in the misty horizon while everything else melts away.

Louis dumps a large portion of stuff in his lap and ruffles his hair in place with a glance to the rear-view mirror. “Drive already.”

Reflexes kick in and when Harry gains control over his actions again they rocket down the freeway, the world forgotten in their wake.

“Is he dead?” he says, his eyes fixated far away as Louis kicks his feet up on the dashboard.

“I didn’t even scratch him,” Louis says. “He had it coming. Don’t worry.”

Harry’s naked fingers stiffen around the wheel. “You’re so cold. Do you do this with every guy you meet?” The AC starts up for real, hot clouds drowning his chilled breaths and diving to his core. The tasteless ornaments in the front window rattle with each bump of the road, stealing his attention for a second. Once the rocking of wheels on cracked asphalt remedies him he throws a glance to the man next to him who stares to his ratty shoes with drooping eyes, immobile and distant.

“Louis,” Harry says in a hushed tone, drowned by the faint radio. “You’re clean, right?”

Louis blinks, his arms slithering up around his rib cage to squeeze and his pale skin glows, its original bronze touch lost. “I haven’t showered in a few days. Nothing major.” His toes twitch in the thick brown boots.

They pass a small gas station with lemon coloured signs that beam “ASOLINE” through the fog. Harry’s chest cramps.

“Sexually,” he says, voice flat and shaky. “Have you tested yourself?”

To his right, Louis slumps deep in his seat and a momentary grin flashes over his face. “Why would I? It’s not like a test will change anything.”

“The tests are free.” Harry leans toward the windshield, glancing to both sides before turning right. Louis doesn’t move an inch, not even when they swerve to avoid a crammed SUV blasting out in front of them. He shifts his gaze to Harry’s side and scans his taut demeanour before resuming the wiggling of his lower limbs.

Harry sighs, slumping back as they roll out on a new lane. “Look, just because you-“

“I don’t want to know.”

Harry gapes, for once thankful that no one can see him, with the isolated landscape and Louis’ resilient armour. He struggles to find his voice and a reply that won’t get him kicked out of the lorry. “That’s a fool’s thought. At least if you went to a clinic you’d know for sure.”

“I’ve never had any trouble these years, Harry, and yeah, fine about the tests, but have you heard about treatment? That’s a load of money I can’t afford. Besides, I always have a condom-“

“And I’m the fucking child in this?” The ornaments bob in the window. “I figured with your tough attitude you’d know better than this, but you’re just as ignorant as a ten year old. Do you _want_ to die? Forget about the costs of a potential treatment, Louis, and go piss on a stick or whatever. Make sure you’re healthy.” His voice wavers in frustration and he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “If necessary I’ll find a job or something. Just go and get it over with. Please.”

Louis huffs a cloud on his hands and rubs them in front of his lips and his toes stop moving with his last exhale. Without a shift from the strained position, he nods, and fixates his gaze on joggers in the nearby woods. For the rest of the ride he doesn’t acknowledge the milieu he sits in or the man clutching the steering wheel. Nothing but the pointless miles of treelines grasps his interest.

 

 

The door creaks open and greets with a storm of leaves. Harry jumps from his seat when Louis slithers through and closes it in silence, leaning back to the wood. He twists his feet into the carpet to stay in place, the murky pine scent just out of range, and his mouth falls open when he takes in Louis’ face. From that point he can’t stop his movements as he strides over the floor and cups Louis’ clean cheeks.

“It’s gone,” he says in an exhale and caresses the warm skin. It jumps into a nervous smile beneath his palm.

“They had the stuff there, and apparently I look more presentable without it, so I seized the moment.”

Harry kneads the soft flesh and breaks into a grin and with his thumb traces the divine jawline no longer in hide under a grimy stubble. Had he known it’d look this delectable, feel this pleasant, he would’ve convinced Louis long ago. The things he can do to that jaw. It takes away the edge of his grin and melts it to a close-lipped smile.

“You look hot.”

Louis chortles, his tone just breaking as he grasps Harry’s wrists and removes the ardent touch.

“It’s been long since I received such a charming compliment.” He strips himself of his white-stained jacket and tosses it somewhere by the littered desk, his steps breaking to throw him on the floor, back against the bedside. It laments his frame and unleashes a puff of dry dust from under the flat pillow, splinters falling from the bedstead. Joy fizzles out in his eyes before Harry can open his mouth and until he catches his voice again silence drapes over the room. He picks his nails, digging the empire of dirt out from below and flicking them away to the carpet.

“It’ll take a week or two to get the results,” he says, pinches his fingers and rests them on his high knees. “Guess we’ll hang around until then, huh?”

Warmth floods Harry’s heart. “Whatever suits you. Do you want me to get you anything? Drugs? A magazine? Maybe I can take you out for that beer now?” Harry makes it halfway to the door, his leather jacket hanging from his elbow and his bottom lip sucked into his mouth, throbbing in anticipation of the cold.

“We could play cards,” Louis says as Harry’s hand rests on the door handle. “The deck is incomplete. I found it a few weeks ago, you know, in a ditch. It’s cold outside, so you’ll be stuck here anyway.”

Chilled metal scars Harry’s upper arm and cages him to the door, but he manages to spin around and his face heats when Louis abandons his finger play and shuffles up on his knees. In the past months he’s never gotten a good look at those eyes. They blow his marrow with scorching gusts, their shallow depths bewitching to his primitive being. His hand slides from the door, swinging useless in the dense air, and he swallows, moving to roll up on the floor in front of Louis with his limbs slack and his interest peaked as Louis’ lips twitch.

They deal and throw cards to a huddle between them, the peach soda in Harry’s breath bubbling in his mouth as he laughs and reaches for his can to offer Louis a guzzle. Their fingers brush and Louis lifts the can in the air before inhaling it, his eyes fluttering as the taste melts on his tongue.

“You’re dreadful.” Louis scoops up the cards, shuffling them as Harry bites back a broad grin. “Instead of picking and choosing we can play an actual game, like rummy. Just toss away the uneven pairs and stop whining.”

“Easy for you to say; your sixes are even.”

Signals brawl from Louis’ phone, tucked against his flesh, and with a chaste glance to the screen he shuts it off and discards it on the spread of Harry’s sweater. He coughs and deals once more.

“So, did you steal that thing?” Harry says, keeping his fingers fitted together even as Louis tosses card after card at him.

“Liam gave it to me.”

Harry scowls. “Liam.”

“Does that bug you?” Louis’ lips curl into a sly grin and he looks at his hand, arranging the components to his desire. Harry draws a breath of luscious aromas from his can.

“We’ve got nothing but time to kill. I won’t be wasting my time on other things.”

Just as Harry picks his handful of dirtied cards, Louis drops his, leaning back to the pillows stuffed to the bedstead and spreads his legs. A tight-lipped grin bares itself over his ripe mouth. “We were partners in crime.” His fingers skim over the zipper to his varsity themed attire. “He was a real gentleman, bought me this jacket and rented us a hotel room for weeks. It had a great view and room service, but we barely got out of bed, to be honest. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Costumer?”

“For months, and as jealous as you are.”

He shimmies out of the jacket. It pools around his scrawny torso, throwing shadows over the abundant fabric of his tee. White spots scatter from its arms to focus around the snowy collar.

Snapshots of Philadelphia flashes back in Harry’s mind. Back when he didn’t spare Louis a second glance, when they ran into each other. For the first time the voice enhanced in vigour, raising chaos with his heartbeat and pushing him back to the thief whenever he desired to focus on his own task at hand. That’s when it took off for real and steered him along a carpeted path with his name on it. The voice didn’t act out on him until he spotted Louis that Thursday afternoon.

He glances to Louis’ smooth features and sinful jawline and nothing but chills and discomfort drizzles through his being. The cards shake in his hand and threaten to depart from his grasp, so his hands tighten, their edges cutting into his skin as a newfound smile splits a path over his pursed lips.

“That satisfies my needs,” he says. “Now, hand over all your jacks.”

 

 

**November**

 

Ice crystals melt against his palm as it settles atop Louis’, his eyes seeking any kind of response. Time fleets at a slow pace, dragging on each suffering moment where he grasps for Louis’ attention and chases his falling grace. Dusk falls upon them in the cleansed alley and he sits bent at his knees as if to propose, and if that’s what it takes for Louis to utter a sound, he won’t hesitate to do so.

He dares to place a parched kiss in Louis’ open palm and nuzzles his nose along his arm, caressing the fabric there with his thumb. He kicks at a garbage bag on the edge of crushing them both under electronics and rotten pizza rolls. The black plastic ripples over a glassy puddle.

Every bone in his body jumps when Louis finally slides his scarred thumb over the back of Harry’s hand.

“They got the results,” he says.

Harry presses to the asphalt, ignoring the obtrusive stares from the alley’s gap to the outside world and blows hot breath on their entangled limbs. It twirls over their skin and colours it ruddy for a moment before it’s caught in Harry’s throat. He searches for signs of relief, a slackening in Louis’ mouth, or a jerk of his muscles. The voice waltzes up and down the lane to their right, glancing with unseeing maw and void eyes.

It takes but the first shaky tone to leave Louis’ throat for Harry to crumble.

“I’m HIV positive,” he says. “I don’t know how long, but they said…” He shakes his head, faces away from Harry and stares through the voice’s embodied form, as if he can outline its shape in the human cluster passing by.

The voice sneers as it nears them, running its claws over the nape of Harry’s neck and tugging at uneven strands curled damp by the rain. It crouches to watch the scene when Harry takes Louis’ hands in his, hoping to sense a fickle of warmth there. He shakes off his own mittens and leads Louis’ fingers through the holes. People rush by, cars honk at one another, misery rages on in the vast crowds, but all he feels is the tremble of Louis’ hand.

“Baby…” he says. His vocal chords swell and sit tight together in his throat. Words have never been an issue until now, and as Louis’ trembling increases he can’t come up with one sentence that will evaporate the cold. He runs his fingers over the frosty nicks on Louis’ hand before enclosing them in his and exhaling breathless fumes in a wordless gasp for help.

The embodied voice steps forward from its shadowed residence and prowls between the brick walls, lurking in the deepest corners of Harry’s mind without disrupting his focus. It’s done enough.

Sunlight deserts them and sinks their immobile bodies into the night’s arctic depths. Rigidity empowers Harry’s limbs and run out in his hands, still clutching Louis’ mitten-covered ones that just fit in his without falling out in the gaps of his fingers. Heat no longer puffs from his autumn-marred lips and wheezy excuses of words claw free of his swollen vocal chords.

“We’ll head south,” he says, “to Texas or something. Key West. Things must get busy around Christmas, so I could get a job there, or anywhere you wanna go. We only have the world.” He ignores the voice’s sigh and caresses the skin beneath his thumb. “Pills can’t cost that much.”

Frozen condensation glitters on Louis’ eyelashes in the final strips of light and fall to the ground when he blinks. Transparent pants streaks from his mouth as he clears his throat.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “Let’s travel to hotter sites. I’ve always wanted to see the coast.”

 

It’s in times like this Harry wishes he’d had enough sense to stay at home, free from the world outside his garden, alone in bed with a voice in his head that obeyed him. Home, where his dad accused him of insanity when he spoke of the voice and ignored him when he told about the things it ordered him to execute. Had he learned to keep his thoughts at bay, trapped in his mind, he’d still have a dad and home to fall back on. The self-indulgent voice brought him here; a thousand miles from comfort accompanied by a hopeless infatuation with a rent boy who initially robbed him of everything. He wishes for it to be a coincidence.

Louis’ ribs work excellent as a drum, his skin silk where it strains over his bones and his muscles lax for Harry to use. His bare chest spreads out under the moonlight and profound shadows bathe in his armpits, a lake of hollow flesh. Long arms weave around his torso and velvet curls joined by Harry’s light breaths tickle his collarbones, the rise and fall of his chest lulling the young man to peace.

Harry rubs his skin, conquering the desire to move his slumbering limbs, and listens to the serene rolls of waves outside their window, inhaling a tang of salt pricking the humid air. Down the shoreline people queue to access their favourite club or hook up with friends. Here within thin walls and sand up in his scalp he longs to join the chattering. His gaze moves to the sturdy ceiling fan and its loose chord dangling by the wall. It would’ve set the whole place ablaze if they hadn’t cut the power.

Natural AC from gaps in the wooden boards skim over their half-stripped bodies and he shivers as it licks over their sweaty chests. He moves closer to breathe sweetness from Louis’ heat, holding his waist in hand and nestling his head up in Louis’ neck. Just as he makes an attempt at slackening his embrace, Louis rises and faces away from him on the edge of the mattress.

“Come on babe,” Harry says, strokes his hand and tugs him back. “Let’s go to bed.”

The sheets rumple under him and folds around his waist, silhouetting the bump of his hipbones and his bleak legs poking out. His plump lips ghost over Louis’ neck, tickles the baby hair, his fingertips scraping over the hints of a ragged stubble. His deft fingers snake under Louis’ chin and tilt it, and Harry tongues over his earlobe in a soft fluid motion. In reward a silent hum buzzes in the man’s parched mouth.

To his quickening heartbeat he lets the fabrics spill off his frame and sidles up to Louis’ back, holding his throat in a gentle grasp with his finger pointed up the hairy jawline as he buries his face in Louis’ damp neck. Each sloppy kiss draws a succulent rumble and tightening of fists in the sheets, egging him on, and when he leans forward to fold Louis’ bottom lip into his mouth he curses the arousal exploding through his body.

He longs to taste, to slip his palm inside Louis’ underwear, fondle him until he begs for mercy, and he’ll obey, huddle into the sheets and strip them of everything but their skin. Sinful whispers will roll off his tongue as the tasteful drag of his cock teases Louis’ slick entrance and thrusts in, their voice melting into a jumble of an orgasm, and in the morning light he’ll trace the bruises on Louis’ lithe, battered body and remember the wicked pleads.

Harry curls his lips into his mouth, rests his forehead on Louis’ shoulder and drops his hand from the man’s sweaty neck. The overwhelming rapture dissipates in a huge cloud and leaves him with his irresponsible actions and a heavy erection. None of this was created for his choosing, and if it’d been a choice he wouldn’t have moved from his bed in Brick at all. Here he can’t find remedy to his pain, or to mend Louis.

With tender lips he dives back to his territory behind Louis’ ear and flicks his tongue out. The man gives away a shudder and fists Harry’s hair, holding him down with iron fist. He dares a filthy grin, caressing Louis’ chest and twirling a wetted finger over his nipple. Nothing will be as good as this.

He pulls Louis back in the wet huddle on the bed, enfolding Louis’ body in his bowed limbs. For a moment he’s bereft of voice, staring at the gorgeous body braced over his head, and he rakes a hand down the sharp ribs and up to dip into Louis’ greasy hair. His hips buck as if commanded and reduces his thoughts into a feral mess, and he whimpers as their cocks rub together. He wonders if the spot in his briefs broaden and leak where it rubs to Louis’ supple back now that he braces his legs on either side of Harry’s torso, hands kneading the young male’s brawny thighs. The position offers a delightful view of his physique and Harry’s gaze withdraws to the delicious trail of pubes dipping into his briefs. His desire wells into greed, and with Louis’ musk above and around him it’s a miracle that he doesn’t cave to his baleful mind-set.

Louis entangles himself from Harry’s arms and sits up, perched on the thin clothed crotch. Harry’s briefs slide down by an inch. “Hold my hips,” he says, his voice just above the quiet crashing of waves.

Clammy palms fit around his sharp hipbones and rough thumbs circle the sensitive spots. All Harry wants is to sit up and slide into him, hold his lithe body in his arms as they shake in wild pleasure and feel Louis throb around him when he comes; rake his nails over Louis’ chest until nothing but irate marks of his cover the stunning complexion. Seeing the slow lip-bite Louis does as his fingers wander up Harry’s sides soothes those reckless desires.

For the first time that night, Louis’ eyes flutter shut, and he shakes the lustrous beads of sweat from his face. His thighs squeeze Harry’s willowy frame and his body shifts up high and back down in a lengthy grind. A pop comes from his mouth as he lets his lip free and blood rushes back to the surface. Not once does he open his eyes.

Teased with gentle bounces, Harry grouses and rams his hips up, earning a hitched gasp from Louis’ pink lips. He piles up pillows and sheets behind his back, shuffling back to recline and moves Louis up his body with a hand on the small of his back. Grunts billow from his lips as he grabs a fist of Louis’ slick skin, rams up and guides Louis in a pointed thrust to his cock.

“Harder,” he begs, his dank hands rubbing the hot flesh and dipping below the saturated underwear, the elastic hem spanking back to Louis’ curved rear when he lets it.

Louis opens his eyes, blank, and moves his hands to Harry’s throat, rocking down with a sharp sigh. Dirty bangs shield his face, but in the moonlight Harry sees his shiny lips, how he bites them to keep quiet, and hears how every once in a while a shaky breath permeates the room.

Harry’s eyes roll back in his head as Louis claws at his burning skin and tilts his head for a chaste moment to lick along his jawline. Teeth nip Harry’s skin and tears away the virgin white colours, replenishing his skin with hot pink. He laps at the rounded chin, kissing a burning trail to Harry’s lonely mouth where he seals his lips.

Harry wishes that the vehemence in Louis’ kiss would be tinged with desperation, an underlying need to have more, and he wishes that Louis’ erection would be caused by excitement and curiosity, not the naked friction of their bodies. He wishes to feel electricity spark where Louis’ tongue licks deep into his mouth, for flames to ignite where Louis’ thumb digs into his cheek, and sense light in the rough touch.

When Louis comes back up he drops his head back, and the glittering beads of sweat caught in his chest fall to Harry’s skin once his bounces increase in fervour. The bed’s wicked creaking drowns out their breathy sighs, going on like an overplayed record.

The heavy erection between Harry’s legs makes him blind to anything but Louis’ slobbered mouth, and his hand caresses the expanse of the man’s sticky chest to twist his nipple. It goes rigid under his firm fingertips as he tugs it in small circles, eliciting a low rumble from Louis. He wants them to glisten in the light, to slip beneath his touch and for Louis to beg. His voice would sound heavenly wrecked, if he could heighten those hinted gasps to full-blown confessions of pleasure like the ones he himself strains to keep down. He removes his frenzy touch, sucking his fingers soppy before twirling them around the scarlet buds.

“Touch me,” he says, breathless as Louis’ body yields to his will.

Louis’ head lolls forward, the contours of Harry’s broad shoulders only silver lines in the dark; cliffs in the deep waters he swims. He clutches them, halts his pace while his chest heaves and Harry rubs his nipples sore, and rocks forward. Holding steady, he fumbles behind him for Harry’s underwear and slips his cock out, grasping it with chilled fingers as it fits between his clothed cheeks and smears precome over the grimy fabric. Harry’s grip on his back tightens and the hardened pinch on his nipple fades. It leaves a moment of bliss before Harry gropes his rear and grinds up to jolt his body.

This way, Louis’ head tipped forward and Harry holding him down in a tight embrace, their lips smear together with each thrust. Harry licks into Louis’ hot mouth, his tongue nimble in the familiar territory, and he hums deep purrs of ecstasy down Louis’ throat. In the dark their bodies are but an aligned mess with no logic movement, one he’s wished for all too long. He takes any piece of Louis he gets, from humping the overhanging body to exploring new depths of his divine mouth. They meld together in the night until he can’t tell their limbs apart or differentiate whose skin he tastes.

Louis’ breaths ring out in his head as he nears his orgasm, and his senses sharpen when the friction grows too hot to comprehend. Everything stinks of sex and the tantalizing pine scent thriving in Louis’ body. Hypnotized, he wires a leg around Louis’ torso, clinging on as the man grinds down harder, his breath short and strained. In Louis’ arms his body weighs a tonne and without the graze of teeth on him he can’t tell up form down. Louis’ grip on his shaft grows quicker into a flurry of motion and his voice breaks in a whimper as limber fingers flick over his wet slit and draws him closer to insanity. His lips split open in a whiny gasp that falls away in Louis’ hair when he comes, saturating the man’s underwear with his thick cream, spurting in long, broad streaks.

People might stand ten feet from the ratty building, but there’s no doubt that anyone on the beach can hear the pleasured cries from the cabin. He twitches at the thought, closes his mouth to melt the high noises into hums.

The moment he calms down Louis removes his leg and climbs from his body, ambling across the room on trembling legs. The wall creaks in support to his weight and he traces his fingers over the ocean wood, ignoring the hot aftermath in bed that calls for him in a gruff voice. After wiping off the come dripping down his thighs he yanks on a pair of jeans and claim the nearest shirt, scratching his stubble and stroking a hand over his lustrous forehead.

Harry spreads over the extensive mattress in all his fucked-out glory without acknowledging the duvet. Now that his personal radiator has flown, goose bumps pop up all over his skin, and he twiddles the sliver of a blanket between his toes. Curls flop over his forehead and his tongue spit-coats his puffy lips when Louis nears his naked silhouette.

“What do you wanna do, sweets?” he says, a light pant still hanging in his words. He slides a damp hand up Louis’ arm, tapping his fingers against the elbow. Blood pumps white and electric from head to toe, but gains a momentary hitch as Louis wipes his touch away and deserts him. The floor bewails the muddy boots trudging over it and remains of sand slides between the gaps back to free ground.

Louis takes two fistfuls of his hair in a slack hold, halting before the matted turquoise door. From below the outgrowth of his bones become even more apparent to Harry.

“I’m going out for a drink,” he says.

Harry’s eyes widen. He sits up, sliding the nearby fabrics over his lower body.

“A drink?” He rolls to his side, silent, legs tucked to his chest. It takes a quick moistening of his lips to find his voice. “Want me to keep the bed warm?”

The door sneaks open at the power of Louis’ hand. Air flows in, its briny edge licking around Harry’s nose and winding through Louis’ hair in a mess. The ancient strips of curtain by the bed swirl up, clawing at the emptiness before dropping back. Wan light flits over the rise of Louis’ back as he breathes in the fresh aromas carried from further down the beach. There in the doorway stands beauty itself, and he wears tattered shoes.

He steps over the threshold and disappears without a trace in the night, leaving a gash in Harry’s heart. Heavy eyes comb the landscape for his familiar shape in fruitless attempts over the endless obscurity. The door sways ajar, and hints of beef billow from the buildings below the cabin.

 

 

The voice is at him the moment morning annihilates his dreams. It saunters around the bed with blackened skin around its eyes and hands in its deep pockets, blowing steam from its broad mouth. Mist encircles the lanky cabin and throws condensation to prickle the window above his head. He could float away in the hazy distance, get lost forever in the unknown.

He lifts a hand to the chilly glass, circling his fingertip over the surface in heedless doodles. If it could, he’s sure the voice would bite his hand off. It’s hung like a cloud in his head for months, brooding, and now that it’s evolved to a hallucination outside his brain he can take a long desired breath. He can relax. The fresh air bites down his throat, his hair shooting high from his skin. His only comfort to the cold arises in the shape of an elongated duvet where the stuffing peeks out through wide holes.

Spots of crusted come appear around his crotch. When he surveys the cabin he sees condoms scattered over the floor, a broad collection of various brands and textures strewn where the rest of Louis’ clothes lay. The voice sighs as he takes a handful of water from the decanter perched on a tall stool, smearing his skin clean of the once hot substance. A dull ache resides in his chest, the same slit the voice left in his head at its departure; hollow madness. He clutches at the patch over his heart, glancing up to the voice who glares at him across the room.

“What?” he says, dipping his feet into a pair of briefs and proper jeans. They chafe their way up his legs and settle low on his hips.

The voice crosses over to the door, its veil-like appearance swimming in front of the oceanic door in small circles. Chills sizzle through Harry at the happenings of last night. Louis’ heavenly hips were enough to reduce his qualms into drizzle in the hurricane trapped in those bleak crystal eyes. Louis’ strained breaths were enough to paralyze him.

A drink?

“Where’s Louis?” he says and reaches for additional clothing scattered over the floor. Last night could’ve ended a lot better. Last night could’ve been good. With his head pushed halfway through his sweater he glowers at the voice. Communication is yet another obstacle in their way of co-existing.

It wavers into thin air, like a heat wave rippling through the frosty atmosphere, flowing out of sight. Frustration burns in his gut and he yanks on socks, ripping their hem into long strings. “You lied about dad too. Just tell me where he is before I kick you out of my skull.”

A knock sounds from the window, and when he looks smooth lines replace his doodles; a thousand arrows pointing east and a bundled forest by them. When he blinks they’re gone.

The day’s elusive warmth curls around him when he dashes out of the cabin with trembling breath, the embodied voice fleeting tight in tow. Water drenches him to the bone and once he escapes the beach’s clutch mud bespatters his lanky legs. A sea of dead trees flickers past in the corner of his eyes, a handful of unfortunate leaves sparkling in the gloomy morning. The heaves from his throat echo around the void in his brain.

With his quick sips of oxygen he feels like a child again, tripping over fat roots that ensnare his ankles, slipping along a hidden path cloaked in a cover of deceased leaves. Ice flows through his every vein, the cloud by his lips growing denser the closer he gets. On his way the voice whispers in his ears. _Louis’ just ahead. It’s getting colder, turn left._ It’s never talked to him this way, and he can’t help but think that it must mount up to something. It knows Louis better than he does.

All paths end up by a brook digging a chute through the moist earth. Water splashes up and soaks his shoes when he breaks the playful atmosphere and wades through the stream. _Close._ He scans the area, his steps slowing at the bare sight of his lover.

Louis wanders along the bank with glazed eyes, the bronze tint to his skin a memory in its new ghostly nuance. Bones protrude from all-over his figure, as if all flesh has fallen away in the melancholy dawn.

His body ripples by the rocks. It rests face down in the water, where the brook opens up in a broader torrent, giant rips in his clothes from edacious branches when he passed them by. His gaze locks on the two shapes only feet from himself, but soon floats on; down to his knees; toes; scanning his skeleton physique.

Harry ignores the translucent man and tears through the flow to the body. He slumps on the ground, legs deep in the brook, and groans as he lifts Louis’ upper body to his lap. Jagged cuts and a dirtied mouth greet him, the final layers of water on Louis’ skin drip to the ground. He pats Louis’ cheek, grasps his jaw and turns the head to the side. Droplets of blood coat a patch by his temple where raw flesh reveals itself, as if something has peeled his skin off with their nails and left a disgruntled chaos by his jagged hairline.

Long ringlets of his greasy hair snake down behind his ears and dangle before his dead eyes, and when Harry twists his jaw to the side once more, hidden masses of water emerge from his throat and spills out. For once the frozen emotion in his eyes is genuine instead of smothered with memories and bad decisions. They’re blown wide, inflamed by something other than the rinsing water, and dread circles in the drab pits. It stays still like a photograph snapped at the most inconvenient time, capturing the depths of beauty that have been out of Harry’s reach ever since they met. A display of everything Harry desires to know and everything he’d love to repress and do right. Though gorgeous in death, his lustre would see no competition with blood rolling through his veins.

“I didn’t know,” Harry says, his voice holding a light quaver to keep his demons at a stand-still. All nightmares escape his head and now roam the avenues in his blue skies. He offers a heavy glance to the transparent man just feet away and the way his feet drag through the mud as he twists, staring at his hands with foolishness etched in his face. “If I’d known it’d be you I wouldn’t have stayed. I promise.”

The voice floats over the dewy grass and tugs an icy gust behind it that washes over Harry. He moves his gaze from Louis’ pallid lips and stares to the transparent duplicate on the other side of the brook. As his own mouth grows colder, as water creeps far up his legs, he pulls Louis’ body up on the ground and hoists him into his arms, stroking away the mud from his skin. He resists fitting his lips with Louis’ to search for puckering heat. It won’t do well for either of them. It won’t answer his questions.

He trudges over to the voice, cradling Louis to his body, staring up at the wraithlike figure arising before them. It has to be Louis. They share the same appearance, the same foul stubble and slim waist, the same gorgeous quirk of a nose.

“He fell on the rocks, didn’t he?” Harry says,

The voice tilts Louis up with a single bony finger. His eyes are as empty as in real life, and for the first time his gaze catches on Harry who shakes his head and sniffles. The body weighs heavy in his arms, yet it’s easy to carry when the impact of what he has to do hits.

“Are you gonna collect him now, or make him suffer?” Harry says to the voice. Keeping his emotions at bay proves to be harder than he prepared for. Dread wells in his gut. It shouldn’t be difficult. He signed up for this.

The vacant stare drills through him and Louis reaches up a hand, moving the outside of it in a languid caress to his cheek, his thumb slipping to Harry’s bottom lip.

The gentle touch breaches his heart, and soon hot tears mix with the arctic water from Louis’ body. It threatens to swallow him whole. The only thing chaining him to Earth is the man cradled in his arms, kept safe from all damage that’s battered him. The corpse burns a sharp contrast in his mind as Louis continues to caress his blemished skin.

“Just take him,” he begs, words hitching deep in his throat to come out guttural. “Take him before I exorcise you.”

The voice places a misty hand on Louis’ shoulder, stealing his focus for only a moment and kisses his snowy lips. The transparent man fades into the landscape, his soul fusing with the voice, leaving behind a sugary tang of vanilla that curls around Harry’s nose. Just like home.

“You didn’t say it would be this hard,” he says. “You didn’t even warn me.”

The voice leads him from the brook, urging him to put back the corpse rotting in his embrace. His glassy eyes blow wide in realization.

“We won’t even clean up the body?”

The voice carries on. Harry’s voice reduces to a croak, brittle where it shakes in his throat.

“I’m supposed to let him lie and rot in a ditch while you go after more souls?”

Just like that, Louis’ body is ripped from his arms by something far stronger than he can comprehend, and it yanks him from the woods by the arm. He doesn’t have time to look back. As they leave the sullen waters behind, he keeps Louis’ soul in a box woven deep in his spirit, in the parts free from the voice’s intrusions and examines.

The voice brings him back to the shoreline where they come to a stand-still. Muffled thumps of a couple walking down the cobbled boardwalk wafts to his ears and the strong tang of salt brings up a second wave of tears to his eyes. The people passing don’t bother to ask what’s wrong, and the only sign of recognition they give him is to cover their child’s eyes and scurry into town.

His head tips forward as he gasps and slobbers his sweater as he crawls away from the middle of the walkway. He grabs onto the black railing and widens his eyes. _Breathe._ The voice floats around him, and he realizes that he hasn’t given it permission to slither back inside. He shakes his head, his breaths evening out to a steady wheezing.

“I don’t want to be your vessel anymore,” he says. For once, it’s easy to ignore the cautious glances thrown his way. “I can’t do it. Find someone else. I’m done.”

It lingers around him and expands and shrinks like his shallow breaths. This must be what despair looks personified. It blows wide with each heave torn from his lungs, encompassing him until he gasps for another wheeze.

He starts to cry again. His breath hitches when the pressure crowding him fleets off, and his gaze locks on a woman on the other side of the boardwalk. Strands of her yellow hair blow into her open mouth and sticks to her full scarlet lips, twisting into the lipstick as if a hurricane rages around her. Her eyes reflect the terror in Harry’s eyes, the same sense of utter despair he’s swam in until it erased his true memories of independence. For a second he wonders if she can hear the screams of a thousand souls trapped inside her, carried through centuries before them both. He wonders if she feels Louis’ palm upon her skin.

They stare at each other until Harry’s woe gets the best of him and leaves him in a teary mess along the walkway, alone, for the first time in months. The woman closes her mouth and sways in the wind, her body occupied with adjusting to the guest in her head. Once she comprehends the situation she picks the sticky tresses from her lips and sweeps a hand through Harry’s damp curls when she steps past him. He tips his head, catching a glimpse of her before she’s gone.

He snakes his arms around his torso, printed with the rips of Louis’ blunt nails. He’s heard that the ocean is supposed to be liberating, but the drawled sighs of waves behind him only floods his hollow chest. He reaches out a hand to an old woman passing by, dropping it when receiving blatant rejection. Pain shoots up his spine as it scrapes against the cobble. Sometime later, when the sun bursts through the fat layers of mist, he wishes that the voice hadn’t left him.


End file.
